


A Note to Follow So

by Coffee_and_Chicory



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depressed Gerard Way, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Suicide Attempt, TW:suicideattempt, Touring, assholes everywhere, bandombigbang:2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-09
Updated: 2008-06-09
Packaged: 2018-12-31 16:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12136524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffee_and_Chicory/pseuds/Coffee_and_Chicory
Summary: Bob Bryar goes from being the sound guy for The Used to the drummer in My Chemical Romance, finding time to kiss Brian Schechter along the way.





	A Note to Follow So

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published on Livejournal in 2008 as that year's Bandom Big Bang. Thank you to fayemeadows for the canon read-thru, to earlofcardigans for the tense wrangling and story notes, and to linda3m for kicking my ass over the finish line, alas I don't know their fandom handles now. These ladies were and still are amazing. 
> 
> At the time lj user clayeer created some really beautiful art to go along with the story. As long as the site lasts, you can find it at: https://fishbowlmermaid.livejournal.com/11551.html#cutid1
> 
> There's also a soundtrack there created by theliftedlorax, though the download for it probably no longer works.

  
Bob strolls up to the stage as Gerard Way in a dirty suit and tie throws his arms around Jepha to hold him in place and smacks a loud kiss to the side of his face. Jepha, looking nonplussed, rubs off the wet spot as Gerard stumbles off across the field that would hold tomorrow's audience.

"What the fuck was that about?" Bob asks, handing over a sweaty bottle of beer.

Jepha shrugs. "Who the fuck knows?" He takes a long pull off his drink. "When he talks fast, it sounds all funny and my head hurts. Fucking Jersey accents."

Jepha turns his face up to the sun, so Bob glances over his shoulder at Gerard now trudging past two techs moving a black equipment trunk. It's stuck in some soft dirt, and they're on either end--pushing and pulling, but they stop and watch from the corner of their eyes as Gerard passes. He smiles and trips in an arm-flailing belly flop, then scrambles up and lurches away as fast as he can shuffle. The techs immediately bend together to whisper. They don't even wait for him to get out of earshot, and Gerard obviously hears because his shoulders jerk back as he slips off between the vans and trucks.

"I think he was looking for Bert," Jepha says, breaking into Bob's study. "Yeah. I think that's what he wanted."

Frank Iero shoots out from the parking lot riding someone's bicycle. Bob watches him circle and harry the techs with the trunk, pretending to run them down and then wheeling away to come back again. Bob grins, and Jepha laughs and throws his empty bottle at them.

*********

Bob plugs in another cable and taps a sequence over his keyboard. The opened file on the monitor beeps and changes and Bob studies it a moment. A nearby tech coiling cable sets an open bottle of water on the end of the sound and recording trunk, right next to the monitor, and Bob glares at it until the other tech coughs and removes it. It's not like Bob won't be setting his own bottle there at some point, but this is his domain and if he doesn't bitch now, it will end in spills and sparks and Bob having a stroke or up on murder charges. Either would totally interfere with the tour.

BANG! The lid to the sound trunk falls over, and the bustle in the trenches full-stops as heads go up looking around for the source. Branden Steineckert stands behind Bob laughing like a jackass.

"Shit," Bob says, rubbing his chest. "Think you took a year off my fucking life."

"Should have seen your face. Fantastic!"

"Yeah, great." It takes two hands to lift the lid back to where it was leaning before. "If I have a heart attack, though, who does sound?"

Branden shrugs. "We'd find someone."

"Gee, thanks."

Branden laughs a little more and then jerks his chin over his shoulder. "You eat yet? It's only burgers, but..." He trails off looking for the rest of what he was going to say.

"They're feeding us? Really?"

"I know right?" Branden turns and heads off again. "Better than riding around looking for McDonald's in East Bumfuck, America."

"Or peanut butter," Bob mutters and follows. If anyone ever thought to ask him about buying stock, Bob would tell them to invest heavily in peanut butter. It was insane how much he had consumed in under three weeks on tour, he was surprised it didn't ooze up out of him when he cut his fingers open.

The food isn't the usual after-the-show fare. Some of the merch kids and local creeps put together a makeshift chow line next to a couple picnic tables. There are big foil pans with lukewarm burgers, hot dogs, and chicken, and a girl with three different hair colors and a big spoon is standing at the end with a bucket of potato salad. Off to the side are a couple of garbage cans filled with ice and cans of cheap soda.

It's a feast from heaven as far as Bob is concerned, and he fills his plate and grabs a couple cans of orange soda. Branden is nowhere to be found, but as Bob looks over the tables grouped together, Frank Iero catches his eye and waves. Good enough. Bob heads over.

Mikey Way is squished against Frank's other side, ignoring food for his Sidekick. And Matt, their drummer, sits across from them with Ray Toro at his shoulder.

Bob settles next to Frank. "Not hungry?" He nods at the empty space in front of him.

"Vegan." Frank answers. "Can't complain, though, since the roadkill is free."

Mike sighs loudly and elbows Frank. "Must you call it that while we're eating? Gross."

"You're not fucking eating," Frank replies cheerfully. "That would require putting down your phone."

"I think it merged with his hand," Matt says.

Mikey rolls his eyes and uses one hand to shovel a forkful of potato salad into his mouth. Then he chews with it open, making faces at Ray and Matt, wriggling his tongue around. "Ahhhh."

"Keep it up," Ray says, "and I'll tie you to the roof of the bus. You can ride up there tomorrow."

Toro isn't smiling, though, so Bob doesn't know if he's joking or not. Since everyone else goes back to staring at their plates, he guesses the others aren't sure either.

"I don't see why you won't do it," Ray says as if continuing a conversation already in progress, and the others shift uncomfortably on the bench.

Bob glances around for his own guys because suddenly there's a weird tension building, and he's pretty sure Frank coaxed him over to try and stall an argument. He's not sure if he wants to play referee here. It spoils his digestion.

"Why are you pushing this when Gerard wheezed his way through the set?" Matt asks.

"Look-"

"I'm not using a fucking click track." Matt cuts him off with a hand wave. "Period. It messes me up more. You try playing with that thing ticking in your ear."

Frank turns his whole body towards Bob, smile firmly in place. "So... how's things with you? Doing okay? Your mom fine?"

Mikey snorts and hunches over his phone.

"Uh?" Bob debates simply getting up and walking away, but Frank looks a little manic. He's probably an arm grabber.

"It just sounds bad," Ray continues, "when we're playing at a certain level and you're fucking around-"

"Why should I try to play perfectly when Gerard is falling down drunk, like actually falling down and forgetting the words?"

Mikey's head snaps up.

Frank's eyes go wide, but he doesn't look away from Bob.

"Then don't add to the-"

"Is Matt running his mouth about my brother again?" Mikey asks Ray, his face blank but his tone angry. "Because he wouldn't even fucking be here if it weren't for my brother."

Frank deflates and swivels back to his band. "Can we not do this here? Please?"

Bob slides down the bench with his plate and slips off among the other tables.

*********

It's hours later that Bob spots Ray standing in the shade under a tree. He's watching the techs scurry around and the locals milling about trying to look busy while doing as little as possible. He has his arms crossed over his chest and is giving everyone his best fuck off glare, ignoring the kids inching closer.

Fucking scene kids--too cool to gush and ask for autographs like other fans. The scenesters stare really hard at them until one of the guys offers to sign something. They act as if it's their innate awesomeness drawing the talent to notice them, and not actually the desire for them to just be creepy elsewhere.

Bob gives them a hard stare as he steps into Ray's space. He's nobody special compared to Ray Toro, Rock God, so the fans pretty much glare back at his audacity to court attention. Bob pulls out his lighter and unrolls the pack of cigarettes tucked in his sleeve. He taps it and offers it out to Ray.

"Nah, man." Ray glanced over at Bob and shrugs in apology. "Not so close to the show. Otherwise I woulda."

Bob nods and lights up his own. He doesn't have to worry about stuff like that.

They stand there in companionable silence, Bob smoking and Ray's shoulders inching down from around his ears. Bob's almost through his second cigarette when Ray sighs and goes loose, cocking his hip and sliding his hands down into his back pockets.

"Ever think of joining a band?" Ray asks. "Being on the other side of the board?"

Bob shrugs, pretty sure Ray doesn't catch it. They're still not looking at each other, only gazing out across the load-in area. "Eh. Sometimes." He stops to think about it and grins. "All the time. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't love music."

"We should play together sometime." Ray turns a little to look Bob over, watches him blow out smoke. "Probably better off doing what you're doing, though. Easier."

Bob snorts. "You think so? Come do my job." He ashes in Ray's direction. "Everyone has their own brand of misery."

"Yeah." Ray grins at him. "Everyone thinks their job is the worst." His grin gets wider. "Or the best."

Bob nods along. "Anyway, a friend once said about being a writer that, like, five thousand books get written every year, and only about five hundred get published." Bob takes a long drag off his cigarette and blows the smoke away from Ray. "Then, like, fifteen out of that five hundred actually make enough money to live off of. Everyone else starves."

Ray nods and gazes back out across the lot.

"I figure," Bob says, "music is like that. All a gamble." He drops his butt and steps on it. "And I have three bad habits that I need money for."

Interested again, Ray turns towards him.

"I enjoy three squares and a beer." Bob ticks off his points on his fingers. "I'm not a nudist, and I'm all for an apartment over a cardboard box. Cardboard is notoriously leaky."

Ray laughs, high-pitched and barking. "You'd need a big box."

Bob smiles; Ray throws an arm over his shoulder.

*********

Bob lets himself onto the bus he shares with several techs and other road monkeys. His sneakers stick to the rug in the lounge, which helps him keep his balance as he passes a couple guys wrestling over the couch. One of the audio techs tugs his arm, but Bob pulls away.

The bunk area is still gloomy despite the overhead being on, and Bob slides into his bunk and cuts out even that light by closing the curtain. The noise outside muffles slightly, and Bob's eyes slowly adjust to the dark. He fishes out his cell phone and calls Brian Schechter. Brian picks up on the first ring.

"Hey."

"Is my ringtone something embarrassing?" Bob asks.

"What?" Brian sounds distracted, and Bob can hear paper being shuffled.

"You answer the phone on the first ring all the damn time."

Brian sighs over the line, the sound tickling Bob's ear. He pulls the phone away to rub at it and misses part of what Brian chatters at him.

"...or maybe I just hung up with someone and the phone was already in my hand. Ever think of that? You're not so special."

Bob hits a button on the wall, and his bunk lights up making him wince. "Uh huh. What is it? Should I guess." He taps the light off and on a couple times.

"Fuck you. Why'd you call again?"

Bob's suggestion of, "I bet it's SpongeBob SquarePants," is met with complete and utter silence, and he cracks up.

"For the record here," Brian says, "you suck."

Bob laughs at him. "If I send you a pineapple, will you fire me?"

"Oh, Jesus, kill me now. What do you want?"

Fun time over, Bob switches off the light and gets comfortable. "If I told you I was less worried about Bert than Gerard and his guys right now you'd say..." The line goes quiet again, but this time Bob doesn't laugh. He holds his breath listening, trying to gauge what's coming by the silence. "You still there?"

"Yeah," Brian answers, quietly. "I don't know what to do. I'm their manager, not their parent." He huffs a short, angry breath. "Frank calls and asks, 'What do I do, Bri? I'm worried.' Like I'm supposed to print him out a to-do list. Gerard's an adult. I've sent him stuff about rehab places. He's not interested."

Bob nods along, though Brian can't see it.

"Fuck. Fuck!" Something gets thrown on Brian's end, Bob can hear it bounce off the wall. "Worse than Bert? Really? How is that possible?"

"Not all the time. Just..." Bob trails off not knowing what to say.

Brian gusts a sigh into Bob's ear. "I'll call and talk to the guys again. Maybe I can get, like, someone to call and talk to Gerard. Like a doctor or something. One of those talking doctors."

"Talking doctor," Bob parrots and chuckles.

"Anything else, Sunshine, while you're chapping my ass?"

"Ray and Matt," Bob answers back.

"Still at each other's throats?"

Bob rubs his hand over his face and yawns into the phone. "Yeah. Two startled dogs that don't know where to bark, so-"

"Bark at each other," Brian finishes. "Yeah. Got it."

The bus door opens and bangs shut so hard the whole bus rocks. "Eh. Let 'em fight it out."

"Oh, that's great advice," Brian says and laughs. "Oh, hey. While I got you. I'm doing pre-pre-pre production on My Chem and Japan."

"Sign me up."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Bob says. "I'd do it for free."

Brian snorts. "What of yours did Bert set on fire?"

"Nothing."

"Did he pee on you? Offer to let you touch his dick if you let him pick out a tattoo for you?"

"Wow," Bob said somewhat awed. "There's huge chunks of my life I'll never be able to tell my grandkids about."

Brian laughs at him. "Welcome to my world. But seriously, I was hoping you'd rec me some techs for Japan. I assumed you would want Projekt Rev with McCrackhead over the Japan thing."

"Projekt Revolution?"

"Yeah."

Bob smiles and fist pumps in victory. "Okay, I'll get you a list of names."

*********

Bob moves from the bus filled with The Used techs to the van filled with My Chem techs for a day before Brian puts his foot down and sends Bob onto the My Chemical Romance bus with the guys.

"Do I haveta?" Bob whines over the phone. "The van? Smells less with more guys. Seriously. And I can still keep an eye o-"

He moves onto the bus on a Wednesday with Jepha's help, which more or less means Jepha tags along to see if he can steal back some of the video games that Quinn lent out to Frank. Bert watches Bob from his open bus door, frowning a little and chewing on the skin around his fingers.

While Jepha and Frank argue over nine-tenths of the law, Bob finds himself the empty bunk and tosses his bag down.

"That's my place," Matt says from the doorway.

Bob looks from Matt to the pristine and clearly empty bunk and back, and mentally calls bullshit. Matt's shirt looks like it's waiting for a chance to fling itself off his dirty torso the second Matt looks away, and Bob can actually see stink lines emanating from Matt's body. There's no fucking way that greasy body has been rolling around on those clean sheets. Bob can even smell Lysol spray and detergent in his clean cubbyhole. Matt would probably hiss and smoke the first time he came into contact with any sort of cleaning residue.

But Matt is pulling a big, black bag from an upper bunk and tossing it onto the clean bed, and Bob sees his first night's sleep slip out of his grasp.

But what can he do? These aren't his guys. He's technically a guest and Brian's extra set of eyes.

Mikey appears at the doorway and watches Bob step over to the bunk Matt indicated. He bites his lip and frowns, glances at Matt from the corner of his eye and then looks slightly embarrassed. Bob raises an eyebrow at him, and Mikey shrugs in answer. Bob rolls his eyes and then heaves his body up.

The first thing Bob notices about his new bed is the smell. It's like feet marinated in sour milk and then dried with rotting roadkill. And wafting up from the bunk below him is a combination of vomit, Drakkar Noir, and desperation.

"Oh, hey! We're roomies," Gerard tells Bob, appearing out of the back lounge. "We should, like, come up with a system where we can knock on the walls to each other and have it be in, you know, code or some shit like thatitwouldbetotallycool." His grin is like a sideways gash on his face, and his brother stares at him with a well-practiced expression of horror. When Gerard notices, his smile falters a little. "I was joking. Duh."

"Sure you were," Matt says and ambles out.

"I was," Gerard insists.

"Well, I believe you," Bob says.

Gerard's grin brightens again. "You do?"

"No. Not really."

Mikey laughs so hard he has to lean against the wall, and Gerard flounces, honest-to-god flounces, off the bus.

Ray's hair comes through from the back lounge before the rest of him does. "What the fuck, Bryar? That's Matt's bunk." He pulls himself up into his own bed across from where Bob is now.

"I requested this one," Bob says.

Ray looks confused. "Why? It probably stinks."

"I heard that!" Matt shouts from up front.

"Yes," Bob answers, ignoring him, "but now I'm across from you." He bats his eyelashes and blows Ray a kiss.

"Dude," Ray says, seriously, "I'm desperate, but not that desperate."

"Thanks, asshole. I feel all welcome now."

"You're welcome."

"You're welcome," Mikey echoes, the sentiment different coming from him. Solemn. "I don't mind you."

Bob reaches out to ruffle Mikey's ridiculous bird's nest of hair but changes his mind and palms his entire face and rubs. Ray laughs as Mikey squawks, and then Bob and Ray play pong between their bunks using Mikey's body. Frank sails in to rescue him only to be passed off as the new ball when Mikey spins them around and shoves him, bouncing away still laughing.

That night Bob dreams he puts his sheets and all his clothes into the washer and then climbs in himself before starting the machine. He wakes up tired and sore but pleased.

*********

Load in done. Soundcheck complete. Bob slips out behind the venue to smoke in peace and finds Gerard and Bert sitting against the wall by the exit door. Gerard is bent over the sketchpad in his lap, and Bert's eyes flick from Gerard's face to his hands and back.

"I'm hungry. Are you hungry?" Bert asks, leaning up against Gerard's shoulder. Gerard shrugs and mumbles something that Bert nods along to, but they don't get up.

Bob watches as Bert chews his lip and inspects his nails, and as he shifts and twitches and peeks at Gerard from the corner of his eye. It's comical to watch as Gerard draws on, oblivious to Bert's other addictions, like attention and touch. But, Bob supposes, Bert doesn't notice how exhausted Gerard looks, the dark circles under his eyes or how glassy-eyed he seems.

When Bob clears his throat, Gerard startles. "What are you drawing?"

Gerard squints up at him. "Something stupid." He shrugs. "Frank as a vampire."

"It's not stupid," Bert says. "It's so cool. It looks exactly like Frank, but different, like how he is on stage. Like this." Bert contorts his face and growls, claws his hands.

Bob grins at Bert and then glances at Gerard watching Bert's pantomime. He's blushing but seems pleased.

"Gee is awesomely talented. Awesome, awesome, awesome." Words spill out fast. "You should see this thing he drew Quinn in a minute. Just a minute and it's really great. We hung it up in the toilet."

Gerard's small grin spreads into a smile wider than Bob's ever seen before. Bert yawns big, his jaw cracking, and Gerard reaches up and puts his own hand over Bert's open mouth. Bert must lick his palm because Gerard jerks his hand back and wipes it on his pant leg.

"I'm tired," Bert tells them. "Let's go put oatmeal in Branden's shoes." He drags Gerard up, and they disappear among the trucks in the lot.

Bob finishes his cigarette and heads back inside.

*********

Frank has a death wish. At least Bob assumes that as he watches Frank ride his bike through the gauntlet of drunk assholes he calls friends tossing fireworks at him. He peddles and ducks, flinches and swears. A bottle rocket flashes past close enough that Bob worries for Frank's eyebrows. Eyebrows don't seem important until you burn them off and only have Gerard to draw them back on. Frank would probably be a lot more cautious if he realized he could spend the next couple weeks with Spock's Vulcan eyebrows.

Brian calls Bob as Frank makes his second pass through. It's a short call. Bob's pretty sure Brian is going to shove a bottle rocket up Frank's ass the next time he flies out to meet the tour.

By the third pass, people are running out of fireworks, and Bert races up and puts a coffee can in Frank's path. Then as Frank passes it, the can goes up in a shower of sparks and something else that flies and hits bystanders not even part of the spectacle.

A wet splat hits Bob's shoulder, and he pulls off a mass of half-burned earthworms, thinking to himself that Bert is kind of an evil genius. He looks up and sees Frank covered in muck.

The next day Bob helps Frank paper The Used's bus with PETA fliers and stands by while Frank gives Bert a five-minute lecture on cruelty to earthworms and their part in the ecosystem, while Quinn stands behind Frank chewing a hot dog with his mouth open.

*********

It's a hotel night, or rather, a motel night. They're in one of those two-story, U-shaped places that open to a courtyard with a dirty pool, and Bob is sharing a room with Matt Cortez, Jepha, James with My Chem, and a couple of The Used's techs.

They're three to a bed when they sleep if they all sleep at the same time. But it's late, and it's just him stretched out on one bed and Matt, his porn collection, and six other people that Bob recognizes by face only on the other. Their eyes are glued to the screen while they trash talk the actor's dick and wonder aloud at the woman's cup size.

It's almost a relief when someone knocks because Bob isn't going to sleep at this point. He jumps up saying, "No, no. Let me get it. Wouldn't want you deviants to strain anything."

The courtyard is dark, and Mikey flinches at the light, steps back a pace and shifts foot to foot. Right before he steps away, Bob sees how red his eyes are. How swollen they are. Bob closes the door behind him. "What's up? Something wrong, Mikey Way?"

Mikey looks to him without looking at him. He zeros in on the space next to Bob's ear, or at his eyebrow, or the ground between them. Bob slowly takes another step closer. "Hey," he says softly, gentling his tone. "You okay?"

"He said he was tired, but..." Mikey gulped and rubbed his ear. "He said to wake him up for dinner."

"Who said?"

"My brother."

Bob nods and takes another step, brings his hand up slowly to squeeze Mikey's arm. "He okay?"

Mikey shakes his head. "I can't wake him up. I shook him and I-... I yelled in his ear."

Bob's arms go cold, his fingers tingle, blood roars in his ears. He's got a really bad feeling about this right now.

Mikey looks up at Bob's eyebrow again, his ear. "I slapped him. He's not waking up. I can't wake him u-" Mikey loses the last word in a shaky sigh. "Can you help me?"

Bob nods and follows Mikey. It's only a couple rooms down, but right now it feels to Bob like miles from where they need to be. Mikey left his door open, and Frank is standing there white as a sheet, light pouring out in a yellow pool around him. Ray stands grim in the gloom further down the row of doors.

"Call someone," Bob orders and strides into the room. "Where the hell is everyone?" Gone of course. Probably hiding. Ray and Frank remain outside. No one wants to be the one to announce they found Gerard dead of alcohol poisoning or an overdose.

The stench hits him first- urine, vomit, and alcohol. There are empty bottles, the contents of two suitcases, and balled up paper littering the room. Working on pure adrenaline, Bob hauls up Gerard one-handed and yells in his face, "GERARD! WAKE UP!" Then backhands him. Gerard's eyes pop open, and he mumbles something that sounds like 'motherfucker.' Mikey gasps and drops to the other bed as Bob drags Gerard's dead weight into the bathroom and tosses him into the shower. He turns on the water and walks out on Gerard swearing. Mikey's head is between his knees, his breathing fast and hard. Bob carefully pulls him up saying, "C'mon. Let's get you out of here."

"I should have hit him harder," Mikey says. Bob nods and presses his lips together in a tight line.

Ray and Frank are waiting outside leaning against the fence around the empty pool. Matt has appeared from somewhere to stand around looking nervous.

"Ray," Bob says, "can you sit with Gerard for a minute?" Mikey is breathing loud and fast next to him, sounding like he came back from running a marathon with rocks in his pockets. Ray looks at them hard, looks at Gerard's door, and then turns and walks away. He steps around the corner of the building and disappears into the dark.

"I've got it," Frank says, still pale and gray like wallpaper paste. Bob stares down Matt until he follows Frank inside.

"No one called anyone," Mikey tells Bob. "I guess he's okay now. Doesn't matter." He stumbles, and Bob catches his elbow, doesn't let go.

Bob guides Mikey down to his own room and shuts the door behind them.

*********

The next day Gerard has a bruise on his cheek and remains sober and conciliatory towards Mikey all afternoon. Bob watches on with growing annoyance until Gerard offers to make Mikey a fresh pot of coffee and hands over a stack of his recent comic purchases. It's too much.

Bob waits and catches Gerard coming out of the bathroom, crowds him back inside and holds the door closed. They're pressed together, and Gerard needs a bath. Bob wrinkles his nose, and Gerard has the grace to blush. "You know what would be a great way for you to make this up to Mikey?"

Gerard doesn't say anything, simply focuses his gaze at Bob's forehead.

"Don't be sorry. Christ. Just, when you do end up killing yourself? Make sure he's not the one to find your damn body." Bob stares at him until Gerard looks away.

"When," Gerard asks, "not if?"

"The way you're going?" Bob replies with a question. "Do you really think this isn't how it's gonna end?" He snorts and shakes his head. "You smell like you already died. Frank acts like nothing is wrong because if he stops to think about it, he'll throw up. Ray is pissed off because he's put everything -everything- into this band, and you're pissing it away. Matt plays like he's stopped trying. Even your band is half-way dead. You're killing it."

Gerard doesn't defend himself or even look at him now, so Bob exits the bathroom and offers Frank the chance to kick his ass at Magic: the Gathering. Mikey curls up next to Frank to offer pointers. They all ignore the retching in the bathroom and Gerard when he slinks out and disappears into his bunk.

*********

Somehow, Frank gets a hold of a potato cannon. He gets up on the roof of one of the equipment trucks and rains down mighty vengeance upon the entire tour.

No one is safe, but he has a mad on for Gerard and Bert. They're constantly dodging fire all day, swearing and hopping around while they rub the newest spot hit. At some point, Frank retreats to the balcony inside after being chased down off the truck by Ray. He nails Gerard in the back of the head with such force, Gerard falls off the stage.

It all comes to an end when Frank accidentally shoots one of the venue's rent-a-cops, and he threatens to call the actual cops.

The day after, Quinn hands out water guns, and by the end of the night, every one of them is filled with tequila, beer, or pee.

Bob doesn't wake all the way the next morning. He surfaces from sleep enough to shift and roll over, and it takes a moment for the strange pressure on his chest and face to register as something he should be awake for.

"What the fu-"

Balloons. Bob's bunk is stuffed with little balloons. He flails out at the curtain, and his hand bounces off something solid. A little feeling around and he realizes that he's been duct taped into his own bunk, which is filled with balloons. "I'm never drinking again. Never."

Someone giggles right outside Bob's bunk.

"Iero! When I get out of this, I'll fucking pound you until you're a chalk outline on the floor."

As he's popping balloons so he'll have room enough to break through the tape, Bob finds out that some of them are filled with water.

He's going to kill that little shit.

*********

The microphone in Matt's kick drum dies during sound check, and the band takes a break while the audio techs dig out a replacement for Bob to switch out. He's part way through the job when Ray comes back and starts noodling around on his guitar. It's a familiar tune but not something from My Chemical Romance, and it takes Bob a moment to recognize 'Blue and Yellow,' Bert's song for Quinn.

Bob doesn't even think about it, he pushes himself off the floor and slides onto Matt's stool, pulls out a couple sticks and whistles for Ray's attention. He gets a wide grin in return and then they're off.

They play until Matt shows up to loom over the kit.

*********

Bob thinks he's the first one out of the rest stop and back to the bus, but Gerard is sitting in the front lounge, head down on the table. Bob can't smell liquor, but when Gerard picks his head up, Bob can sense something is off. Gerard stares at him a moment, then giggles. He keeps giggling until it becomes a belly laugh. Bob's skin crawls from the sound of it.

"You okay, Gee?"

Gerard's laughter suddenly cuts out and changes to tearful sniffling. "Why do you care? I'm horrible. Why should you care? I mean really."

Bob's about to answer when a rock hits the window over the couch. They both freeze and then turn to stare. Another rock hits, then a hand full of dirt and a shoe.

"GERARD!" Bert calls from outside. He sounds as fucked up as Gerard is acting right now. This doesn't bode well for anybody tonight. "Gerard, Gerard let down your dick, and I'll climb up your tower and rescue you!"

"Oh, Christ." Bob covers his face.

Gerard jumps across to the couch and pounds on the window from his side. "Bert! Help me! I'm trapped."

When Bob finishes rubbing his face and looks up, Gerard is scaling the bunks like Spider-Man and headed for the ceiling vent. "What the fuck you doing?"

But Gerard doesn't bother answering, he simply snaps open the lock and pops the vent, pulls himself out with the strength God grants children and assholes who've snorted away their reason and inhibitions.

"Get down, dumbfuck, before you break something!" Bob dodges a wildly kicking foot and then there's scrambling and scraping noises on the roof of the bus. "Holy shit!"

Bert's outside yelling, "I'll catch you!"

It feels like his heart is exploding as Bob dashes off. With his luck, Gerard is about to break his neck at some rest stop in the middle of Nowhere, America. The press will have a field day talking about his emo lifestyle killing him like predicted, and Brian will kick Bob's ass.

He reaches Bert's side as Gerard sits and slides off the roof of the bus, and it's a mad scramble for them to catch him. It's less catching on Bob's part and more throwing himself under as cushioning because he reasons that if Gerard accidentally kills him, it would be less painful than Brian doing it with intent later.

"I got you, Gee!" Bert yells as Bob is hit by what feels like a bag of bricks. A big, Gerard-shaped bag of bricks.

"Ooof!" Bob cannot tell if the stars he's seeing are the actual stars above him, or the ones knocked out of his head when it hit the blacktop.

"I'm okay," Gerard says, picking himself up. He takes a few testing steps and limps. "Eh, doesn't hurt too much. I'm good."

Bert leans over Bob and grins wide, pats his shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll take care of him. You know me, I'm a good guy."

Bob gives Bert a thumbs up, and Bert wanders off towards his bus wearing one shoe, Gerard in hand.

Bob lies there gasping until Ray finds him and helps him back onto the bus.

*********

The tour pulls into the venue a couple hours later as the sky is getting light. Bob wants caffeine. Needs it. But he also needs to get the hell off the bus for a while, so that means a Starbucks run.

The bus is quiet. The rest of the band didn't turn in until about an hour ago. Bob pulls on his sneakers quietly and carefully makes his way to the door. It swings open on a wet and sloppy Gerard. He looks tired and a little sad. "Where's Bert?"

"On his bus," Gerard answers.

Bob stands aside and waves the other man up. "Something wrong?"

Gerard shrugs and digs through a cabinet looking for a clean cup. "Quinn wanted me to leave. I annoyed him or something." He pours himself a glass of juice and takes a long drink.

"What did you do?" Bob asks.

"I had to pee and Bert was locked in the bathroom. Motherfucker was taking too long." Gerard glances away from Bob and blushes. "So I pissed in the sink."

Bob sighs and rolls his eyes.

"All over their dishes."

"Why?" Bob asks, exasperated enough to raise his voice. "Why would you do that?"

"Bert told me to," Gerard answers. "That asshole said to! It's his fault. Quinn should be mad at him. I had to piss."

Bob shakes his head and sits on the lounge table. "And why are you wet?"

"Jepha had a super soaker."

"Of course he did." Bob pinches the bridge of his nose then picks up some leftover MacDonald's napkins to dry Gerard's face. "How's your ankle? Still limping?"

Gerard nods and ducks his chin so his hair falls in a wet, stringy curtain. "Kinda stupid. Jumping off the bus, right?"

"Not any stupider than throwing myself down as a landing pad," Bob answers back.

"Yeah, thanks for that," Gerard mumbles.

They stand there in the quiet; Bob sees his window for Starbucks closing but doesn't leave. Gerard seems to be shrinking in on himself, bags under his eyes and shoulders drooping. Anyone else and it would be pathetic. But it's Gerard, and he still has enough charm and Elvis dust to inspire saving.

"Hey," Bob says softly. "Clean up a little. Lie down. I'll check your ankle."

Gerard nods and heads for his bunk. He doesn't clean up. He toes off his shoes and socks and leaves them in the walkway, drops down into his bunk and throws an arm over his eyes.

Bob reaches down to the bum ankle and inspects it gently. It doesn't seem broke, isn't warm to the touch. "Be nice to Mikey later." Gerard moves his arm enough to peek up at Bob. "He was worried when he came back with food and you were gone." Message delivered, Bob slides Gerard's curtain closed and heads out to get ready for load-in.

*********

Load-in goes smoothly for once. Soundcheck goes as well as Bob can hope. The audio techs are all on their game. The first set has Bob doing some damage control with feedback problems, but it's nothing too serious. Things look to be where they should be for an awesome show.

Which is when things go to hell.

Mikey Way makes his way to the soundboard with a determined set to his shoulders. "Did my brother really jump off the bus roof?"

Bob stops and blinks in shock. "No one told you?"

"You didn't tell me," Mikey corrects.

"Ray helped me onto the bus. I laid down all sore," Bob explains. "I thought he would have told you. Or that you would ask about me."

"Well he didn't and I didn't," Mikey says. "Everyone was having fun. I figured you were sleeping off something, you know, like everybody else. But no. Gerard jumped off the bus, you were there apparently, and you didn't tell me."

The calm tone confuses Bob. "Okay. I'm sorry." Is Mikey angry with him? "Next time your idiot brother tries to break his neck and kill himself, I'll make sure someone interrupts your fucking good time to let you know."

Mikey goes still, and Bob's not sure the kid is even breathing. He reaches out, but Mikey steps away, turns, and marches off.

*********

After the breakdown, Bob goes to the bus. For once, it's empty. Not even Matt, who of late, likes to hang out playing video games alone. The quiet is nice, and Bob takes advantage, sorting his clothes into his clean duffel or laundry bag, putting away his books and CDs, and then giving into his quirks and cleaning up after the other guys. He's making coffee when the band finally trickles in, Gerard still limping, though making an effort to not look pathetic by stepping carefully and slowly.

Mikey comes up the stairs last and worms his way through the knot of bodies in the front lounge, disappearing into the bunk area. He comes back out as Gerard, Frank, and Ray drift towards the back lounge, talking about some industry guy they met and a rolling studio. Matt snags a beer and heads for his bunk, slides the door closed behind himself. Bob watches Mikey settle and digs out a second clean mug and pours them some coffee.

Bob holds out the mug, and Mikey, wrapped in some ridiculous Carebear blanket, ignores him. It's not something he's used to. Bert, Quinn, Jepha, and Branden throw punches or get in his face and yell. Silent warfare requires being able to shut up and to be subtle. Mikey can do that, but Bob doesn't do subtle. He sets his mug down and leans into arrange Mikey's legs, then sets Mikey's coffee mug in his lap. "That's hot. Don't spill it, if you want kids."

There's not a lot of room the way Mikey's arranged himself on the couch. Bob looms a little hoping Mikey gets the hint and scooches down. But he taps away on his Sidekick and pretends not to notice. Still not doing subtle, Bob squeezes in next to him, then uses his hip to nudge Mikey down enough so he can settle himself between Mikey and the counter. "Not talking to me?" Bob asks, pokes Mikey's arm. "Fine. Be mad, kid. You should be mad."

Mikey turns sideways on the bench and puts his back to Bob, and Bob simply slides his arm up along the back and then down over Mikey's thin shoulder to pull him up against his side. It takes a couple minutes for Mikey to give in and lean back against Bob. He stays tense, though, his back stiff and his shoulders hunched. "You should be mad," Bob says again. "Just be mad at the right person."

Bob drinks his coffee slowly and between swallows, he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. These guys exhaust him. Bert and Jepha with all their energy and tricks never made him this tired. The caffeine isn't doing anything for him, only waking him up enough to be aware he needs several more hours sleep, and he can feel himself starting to drift. He comes awake, though, when Mikey begins to tremble. Bob doesn't acknowledge it at first, he stares the back of Mikey's neck. There's a ring of dirt in the crease of his skin there. After a couple of minutes Bob whispers, "He's okay."

Mikey nods, and his breath shudders out in a broken sigh.

Bob sets aside his mug and rubs Mikey's back until he can collect himself. After another couple minutes where they don't talk, simply sit breathing together, Bob asks, "All right now?"

At first, there's no answer, then Mikey nods again, slowly reaches up and wipes his hand over his face. He picks up his mug and takes a sip. Whatever moment they were having is over, and Bob pats him and gets up.

"Night, kid."

Mikey doesn't say anything, so Bob ruffles Mikey's hair and heads for his own bunk.

The sliding door is cracked open a tiny slice. Bob pushes it wider, and Gerard is standing on the other side. Listening. They stare at each other a moment. Gerard looks pained. He squeezes past Bob, patting his shoulder as he goes.

It's a long time before the thick feeling in Bob's throat passes enough for him to sleep.

*********

After that, things get better and worse at the same time. The boys settle, both bands. The tour itself hits a rough patch. Things get busted. People get sick. Really sick. Lysol and Febreeze are used all day. There's talk of a bunch of guys stopping into the local emergency room for antibiotics. During load-ins and breakdowns, there's enough moaning around the stage and trench areas that Gerard starts drawing zombies non-stop.

Frank's girl, Jamia, joins the tour. She rides behind the bus in a car with her friend. Bob, Ray, and Matt offer to switch off so she can stay on the bus with Frank in his bunk and her friend in their vacated one. Jamia keeps apologizing for being such an imposition by filling the bus fridge with food and cleaning the place with honest-to-god cleaning supplies. She uses a mop to get sticky goo off the floor. Jamia even does everyone's laundry and convinces Gerard to take a shower. Bob, Ray, and Matt don't tell her they like driving her car in case she decides to stop taking care of them. But the truth is, those couple hours alone with no one sharing their air are heaven.

Bob's kind of sad when Jamia heads back to Jersey. With her around, he didn't feel so alone in watching out for the guys. He's not as sad about her leaving as Frank, however, which becomes part of the problem after that.

Something happens while Bob is in breakdown with the rest of the road crew. He's strolling past the departing trucks afterward and hears Quinn and Matt yelling things like, "Smell you later!" and "No, smell -him- later!" Gerard's already drunk and mid-rant when Bob gets up into the My Chem bus. While Gerard paces and says things like, "Fuck Matt and Quinn sideways," Bert sits there nodding along, eating an ice pop.

Bob doesn't get the chance to sort out what's happening, though. Frank comes in from the back saying, "Gerard, seriously. Shut the fuck up already. Enough." He rummages through the boxes in the freezer. "They have a point. Fucking take a shower once in a while, and stop stealing people's clean clothes, asshole." He comes up with an empty box and glares at Bert. "Motherfucker! Are you eating the last one?" He chucks the box at him.

Bert dodges and offers the half-eaten ice pop out of his mouth. Frank eyes it a minute and then snatches it away. "Get the fuck off my bus, Moochie."

"What the hell, Frankie?" Gerard asks, wide-eyed and shocked.

"Naw, it's okay," Bert insists and tugs Gerard to the door. "C'mon. We can make Quinn set up the video games again." He tows Gerard behind him, just as eager to leave as Gerard is to stay and demand answers.

Bob stares at the door and then turns and looks at Frank, who's finishing the ice pop.

Frank narrows his eyes at him and flips Bob the bird. "Him and Matt and Bert better fuck off with that shit. Quinn too." Frank licks the stick and then tosses it at the garbage can, misses, and shrugs. "Fuck that shit. Life's too short."

Bob nods a little, dazed from that tone coming from Frank. It's not often that he is deliberately an asshole to people. The pranks and fireworks and shit are just Frank having fun. This is different. Bob doesn't like this Frank.

"Imma go call Jamia. Fuck you later, assmunch."

Bob watches him shuffle off then pulls out his phone and drops heavily on the couch, hitting the speed dial he programmed for Brian Schechter.

*********

Load-ins and setups are longer to complete than breakdowns. It's simply a fact. The sky is blue, and load-ins take forever. It's a lot of frantic running around and then waiting for someone to do something, so that your station can finish something else and... frankly, Bob needs a break. He needs a cigarette, a nap, and a meal that doesn't come out of a greasy paper sack.

He lets an audio tech know he's heading outside for a smoke and then steps through the nearest exit he can find, surprised to find Brian standing two feet away conferring with Ed, the My Chem tour manager. Brian glances his way then returns to his conversation. They haven't even spoken yet, but Brian's presence alone leaves Bob feeling lighter. He actually enjoys his cigarette.

Brian and Ed confer for a minute, and then Ed heads inside leaving them alone. "Hey, how's it going?"

"I feel," Bob explains, "like I've been babysitting a ticking box and I'm really glad to see the guy with BOMB SQUAD on his jacket show up."

Brian looks a little worried. "That bad?"

Bob shrugs and scratches his beard. "I've kinda been using Frank like a canary. He's okay, then shit is okay." Brian nods along. "Well, the canary is acting like it's going to start taking names and kicking asses."

"Okay, I don't really get that analogy," Brian answers, "but I'm going to go with, things are getting worse."

"Things are getting worse." Bob tosses his butt and pulls out another cigarette, offers one to Brian, then spends the next ten minutes filling him in on the tour. He's missing long enough that another tech comes looking for him with Ray on her heels.

"He-ey, Brian," Ray greets him and stands up straighter, putting his shoulders back and smiling hard enough to almost look manic. "How long you here for?" Bob laughs at Ray's quick attitude shift. It's funny how Brian has that effect on all of them.

"Business stuff that had to be done at the office to set up Riot Squad is pretty much done, so-"

Frank barrels around the corner and straight into Brian, knocking him back a step or two. "You're here! Is it true then, isn't it?"

Brian laughs and gives Frank a good push. "Yeah, yeah. Playing tour manager for The Used for now, and sending Teddy home. I can take care of the rest of my stuff with a laptop and cell."

"Awesome, I gotta get back inside," Bob says and heads in.

Brian follows him with Ray and Frank on his heels. There are fewer people setting up now, but those left are buzzing around at high speed. Bert waves from the stage itself and then ducks away with a guitar tech. Bob tunes out his friends and concentrates on inputting the numbers on the pieces of tape stuck to his monitor and makes a mental note to invest in Post-It Notes when he gets a chance. He hears the words click track from behind him and then happens to glance up to see Matt Pelissier headed their way. "Uh, guys?"

Matt doesn't waste time with hi, how you doing. "Already with the fucking click track, Toro?"

"Oh, fuck you," Ray answers. "I don't even know what song you were-"

"You mean the song that Gerard forgot the words to halfway through? Or the song where his pants fell off?"

"Guys, guys." Brian pushes his hands out trying to herd them away, but Ray and Matt are squaring up for a fight. Frank steps to the side and slightly behind Bob.

"Then think about this," Ray says in quiet anger. "When we fall apart, who will want to play with a sloppy musician who can't consistently play an arrangement he wrote himself?"

Bob can feel Frank stiffen against his back. "We're not breaking up! What the hell, Toro?"

Ray shakes his head at him and then looks away, and Bob can't look at Frank's face and his reaction to what goes unsaid. He just can't. He'd probably end up hitting Ray for it because Frank can do big-eyed, sad faces like no one's business.

Frank walks away spitting over his shoulder, "Fuck you, man. You don't know anything. Anything!"

Matt sighs and gives Ray a disgusted look. "And everyone's saying I'm the one that’s given up?" He walks away after staring hard at Bob, and Bob bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood to keep from saying something stupid.

"Awesome," Brian says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I better go after Frank before he breaks out the paint guns. Once Jepha finds a partner for that sort of mayhem, we're all up shit creek."

Bob waits until Brian heads off before pinning Ray with his most disappointed look. Ray simply rolls his eyes.

"I only said what other people are thinking. Gerard..." Ray trails off, gazing off across the room. His lips press into a tight line, and he drops his head forward so all those curls swing up to cover his face. Bob knows that despite it all, Ray still believes in Gerard. It probably makes it all the worse for him, knowing the potential is there and seeing it being buried under everything.

"You and Matt fighting though?" Bob reminds him. "It's not good. Not for you, not the band. Not Gerard. One problem at a time, all right?"

"If Matt weren't around..." Ray lifts his chin and peers at Bob through his frizzy curls.

There's a lot of ifs loaded into Ray's one big if, and Bob can't be a part of that right now. He shakes his head and takes a step back. He doesn't want to be the horse mid-stream.

Ray looks sad about that. Maybe a little betrayed, Bob doesn't know for sure.

"You know? Fuck what Matt wants." Ray nods and goes back to staring up at the stage. "Play the click track in his ear monitor."

"What? I can't just do tha-"

"Man, I can't do this! I need to fix something. Please?" Ray pleads with everything he's got, looking at Bob like he's God and this is his deathbed confession. "Please? Do this one thing for me? Us? Then maybe things will start coming together again. Fix one thing and the rest will follow. Right? This is that one thing."

Bob isn't so sure about that, but he can't say no to Ray right now. He looks wrecked, and it feels too cruel. "I'll see what I can do about his mix."

"Thanks, man."

A couple years down the line, Bob will think back to this moment and realize that in a way, Toro was right.

*********

It's well after the show and breakdown before Bob sees Brian again. They've both spent all night putting out their own fires, and Bob's pretty sure that Brian looks the way he feels: worn down to almost nothing.

It's a hotel night for the bands, but the techs are heading out on the road tonight to set up tomorrow's stage early. Bodies swap bunks and buses. Cortez comes off the My Chem bus with Bob, and they climb into a van with a trailer that will follow the rest of The Used's roadies on their bus. By rights, Bob should be on that one, he started the tour there after all. But the longer he bunks with Gerard's guys, the closer he feels to them. Like he owes them his loyalty now. It's weird to work for one band and think of himself as part of another.

Brian flags down the van and crowds on next to Bob. He settles in and pulls out his iPod, offers Bob one of his earbuds. They listen in companionable silence. Bob looks out his window. Brian watches the road out the slice of windshield available to him. They press close, touching from shoulder to hip to knee. When the van hits a pothole, their ankles bump.

An hour into the trip, Bob dozes off with Brian asleep against his shoulder.

*********

Outside shows are more work. There are more microphones involved and feedback crops up a lot. There's an entire amp missing and someone drops a trunk on a guitar and breaks the neck right off. It's a pain in the ass show to load in, and the crew is working on little sleep and shitty food. It's a recipe for disaster all morning, everyone's tempers are close to the surface.

Bob tries to roll with things, but even he is having trouble finding his zen.

Brian wanders over carrying a bottle of water, opens it and sets it next to Bob's elbow on the soundboard. Bob spares him an irritated glance and moves the bottle to a table behind him, well away from his computer equipment.

"I was just being nice."

Bob nods and counts to ten. "Thanks."

"Bert's annoyed," Brian tells him, "I left Ed behind in charge."

"He'll get over it."

Bob inputs a figure and steps around Brian to go inspect something on stage. When he returns, Brian is deep in conversation on his cell phone, so Bob ignores him. He hears the cell click shut and then Brian is a warm presence at his shoulder.

"Need anything before I annoy people while making my rounds?"

Bob glances up from his screen and then back down. "Ray wants me to add a click track to Pelissier's mix in his ear."

"First off," Brian says, "Matt is not going to go for it. Second, I don't know of many drummers that could play with that in their ear during a live show. And third, Matt is -really- not going to go for it. I mean, it's epic in how bad that idea is."

"Ray wants me to play it anyway. Fuck what Pelissier wants."

Brian stares blank-faced at him and then slaps his hand to his forehead. "Oh my god, they're trying to destroy themselves. I can see it now. Matt jumping out from behind his drums and beating Ray down on stage using his stool." He sighs and then uncovers his eyes. "What are you going to do?"

"What do you mean, what am I going to do?" Bob asks in return. "You're the boss here. You tell me."

"I say don't do it," Brian answers.

"Great, now put your foot down and tell Ray."

Brian shakes his head. "Tell him I said no. Christ. What's so hard about this?"

"Brian," Bob says sternly, "you've got to step in. This isn't just about Ray and Matt. You know this."

"No, I don't," Brian insists. "I have no idea what's been happening, and anyway, it's not my place to say anything."

Bob rounds on Brian with his hands flailing. "Are you fucking kidding me with this shit? You've only moved me onto their bus to tell you exactly what's going on, and it's so totally your place to speak the fuck up. You're their management company. You're their business manager."

Brian nods along. "Exactly. I'm their manager, not their parent or warden. I can't fix them, and I don't have the time right now to get sucked into their black hole."

"Will you listen to yourself?" Bob asks, shaking his head and advancing on Brian. "Are they your friends or your meal ticket? What are you gonna do? Suck 'em dry until there's nothing left to get on stage with? Are you really that guy?"

Brian pops Bob in the eye, and Bob didn't see it coming. He staggers back into his soundboard and by the time he rights himself, Brian is gone.

*********

When the talent rolls in later that the day, everyone comments on Bob's black eye. Brian avoids him.

Bob watches Brian from a distance as he runs around making everything run smoothly with a deft touch here and a phone call there. He watches Bert hump Brian's leg and watches him push against Frank's paintball onslaught to grab the gun away. Gerard puts down a beer, and Brian steals it away and replaces it with a water bottle. The more Bob watches, the more stupid he feels over their fight. Brian really cares for these bands.

Brian isn't that guy, business first. His friends are his business. If My Chemical Romance implodes, Brian loses both.

Quinn wanders over to Bob after his sound check. He snags the bottle of water Brian left earlier and drops into a chair to watch My Chemical Romance run through their gear check. Mikey and Gerard are running late, so Bob backs up and pulls his chair next to Quinn, who offers the bottle of water. It's lukewarm and they pass it back and forth without talking until they drain it. Quinn pegs Frank with the empty bottle, who flips them a double bird.

Mikey strolls in and Bob is about to get up again when Quinn says, "You can't force someone to change. They have to want it for themselves. If they don't want it. Really want it. Doesn't stick."

Bert talks about his addictions and being thrown out, loves to tell the story about Quinn letting him move into his place to anyone willing to listen. But it's not often Quinn talks about it with anyone not directly connected to the band. It makes Bob stop and think about what he's saying now because it's obviously important to Quinn that he hears it.

"Okay, yeah. I get that," Bob says softly. "But do you ever wish, though, that you could fix all of someone else's problems? Wave a wand and make it easy for them? Or that someone could, you know, say something and get through to them? Come up with the right words?"

Gerard and Bert come out from the side stage, and Quinn watches them leaning into each other and whispering. He catches Bob watching him and quirks his lips in a small grin. Bob smiles back at him.

"Nice shiner, Spot."

Bob narrows his eyes. "Screw you, Allman."

"You wish," Quinn says and ruffles Bob's hair.

*********

Bob uses Ben-Gay like hand cream after breakdowns.

He hates the smell of Ben-Gay but keeps buying the stuff anyway. He's used it for so long now, that the noxious odor creates a Pavlovian response where his shoulders come down from around his ears as soon as he smells it. Bob has a whole ritual he does. The last trunk gets loaded in the trailer, he washes his face and hands, downs a bottle of water, and then finds somewhere quiet to really rub the cream in before climbing onto the rolling sideshow that his life has become.

Brian finds him sitting against the low wall alongside the parking lot. Bob is working the heel of one hand with slippery fingers, smelling like he took a bath in menthol and camphor, and Brian strolls up with his hands jammed down into his pockets. Bob stops to look up at him and waits for whatever is coming.

"I'm not gonna say sorry for punching you."

Bob raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything else.

"But I shouldn't have hit you." Brian rocks up on the balls of his feet and back down, turns to gaze at the caravan starting to pull out like he doesn't care what Bob thinks. But he peeks out the corner of his eye and catches Bob staring at him, and a pink flush spreads down his neck and across his cheeks.

"If you're not gonna say sorry, then mind if I do?" Bob asks.

Brian pulls the tube of Ben-Gay off Bob's lap, squeezes out a small amount and draws Bob's hand to himself. He presses his thumbs into his palm and rubs. "Don't worry about it."

So Bob doesn't worry. He enjoys Brian's warm hands, and they both smell like menthol and camphor when they board their separate buses.

*********

The buses drop them all off at a motel an hour later, a place that hovers somewhere between being a decent place and a shit hole. But it has a pool, and those not showering are doing some night swimming, so Bob loves this place.

No one back home understands how bad the hygiene on tour gets, the smell of so many unwashed bodies is almost a solid person in the vehicles unto itself. The only people that understand what he complains about are the ones he tours with, and this, like a million other small things, is what separates those on tour from what they all come to think of as the normal world.

The normal world is up-to-date on the latest television shows. The normal world doesn't eat all their meals from a sack that gets passed to them out a window. But in tour world, life is different. Clothes that can wriggle off a body and stand up by themselves are as common as people group bathing in hotel pools.

Also, a tour-only phenomenon is any room that Matt Cortez stays in becomes the default porn hot spot. People not even with his band know to seek him out. Bob probably sees more tit and ass in one night rooming with Cortez, than a porn star will see in a lifetime of filming. It's a fact he's come to accept and simply leaves when the laptop and DVDs come out. The guys Bob room with never remark on his departure, and Bob thinks it's because they aren't even watching him at that point.

Bob wanders out of the motel lot and turns left. The buses dropped them off and then headed for the nearest lot that could hold them, and he figures they have to be close enough for the drivers to hoof it. There are no sidewalks and the cars blow their horns as they roar past, and Bob flips off the ones that curse at him. He almost doesn't see the strip mall sunk down into a pit, but the driveway catches his attention, and he can see the buses parked in the empty spaces farthest from the stores. Bob climbs down the embankment and heads for the My Chemical Romance bus. Without the tour noise -people milling around, the engines idling, the batteries running- the scene is a lot more silent and creepy than he's used to. Bob shivers and jams his key and code into the door, glad for the creaking hinges cutting some of the quiet at least.

"Hey!"

"Holy shit!" Bob spins around with his hand over his heart and punches Brian's arm. "Almost gave me a heart attack, dick weed. Fuck."

Brian kicks Bob's ankle and dances away from his swat. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?"

Brian shrugs and glances around looking for other people. "Breaking and entering? How should I know?"

Bob climbs up a step and flicks the first switch. Nothing happens. "I'm getting my own damn room tonight. Sleeping alone." He finds the flashlight the driver keeps up front and turns it on.

"On the bus? Aren't you sick of it yet?"

"Christ, yes." He blinds Brian with the flashlight beam. "What do you suggest then?"

Brian chews his lip and squints up at Bob, and while it's too dark to be sure, Bob thinks Brian might be blushing again. He kind of likes seeing the man with the plan being nervous.

"We'll ditch our roommates." Brian ducks his chin and scuffs his sneaker against the asphalt. "I'll, uh, I'll pay for a room out of pocket to share."

"Are there rooms left even?" Bob asks. There's a lot of guys, but everyone sardines it to save money.

"I dunno. We could find out." Brian shields his eyes to look at him, and Bob clicks off the flashlight.

The sudden dark is extra black, and Brian shuffles closer. Bob can hear his sneakers scrape across the tarmac. As he thinks the offer over, his belly clenches with nerves and his fingertips go cold. They've been dancing around each other for a long time. "Okay." But maybe it's just Bob thinking they have. "We'll get a room." They could get a room and that's it. Turnover and sleep. Maybe not.

Bob walks in the gutter on the way back, between the cars and Brian. A truck speeds by close and Bob steps to the side--his arm brushing Brian's, their hands bang together. Bob glances over, and Brian smiles and looks away. Maybe it's not just him then.

They get a room together, or rather Brian gets them a room while Bob stands at stiff attention at the office door trying to look like he's not getting a room to fuck another man in. Then they're in a room. With one bed. Alone together.

"Wanna shower or anything?" Brian asks in a nervous rush. Bob can see his hands shake a little.

"Not particularly," Bob says and steps closer. He folds his hand behind Brian's elbow and squeezes gently, then slowly leans down and presses his lips to Brian's in a firm, dry kiss. Bob tunes everything out and swears he can hear his own heartbeat in his throat.

Brian whimpers and the sound goes to Bob's dick. He slides his hand to Brian's back, gathers him close in a gentle hug. Touches his tongue to the seam of Brian's lips and licks into his mouth. What he feels is uncomplicated and undoubted, a simple desire for this man. For a chance to stretch Brian under him and feel their skin slide together. He can feel the moment Brian gives in, the way his body relaxes, and he leans closer to Bob, clutches the front of his shirt in two fistfuls. Bob kisses him hard and forgets to breathe for a moment. He wants this.

They break the kiss at the same time, and Brian stares at Bob's mouth. They're so close Bob can feel Brian's panting against his lips. Bob doesn't look away and steps forward into Brian, crowding him and urging him towards the bed. Brian turns his face away, but Bob doesn't give him a chance to think twice. He leans in and licks a wet stripe up his neck to behind Brian's ear and sucks the soft skin there and enjoys the way Brian shudders.

Bob's wanting goes from a soft ache to a throbbing buzz, and he noses along Brian's jaw, licking and nibbling. He clutches Brian tight to him and moves to the bed. Before Bob can push Brian onto the bed, Brian surprises him by spinning them around and tipping over with Bob when they drop. And yeah, Bob doesn't mind that at all. He wriggles further up onto the bed, careful to keep Brian with him.

The pillows are soft and thick enough that Bob sinks into them settling back. Brian stares down at him, openly studying his face, his gaze flicking to Bob's mouth. Bob licks his lips, and Brian closes his eyes and groans. It's been a while since someone's desired him like this, and Bob is enjoying it a little. So he lets Brian look his fill and reaches up to scratch his nails through the soft scruff of hair at the back of Brian's neck.

The space around them slowly shrinks until Bob is only aware of all the places his body touches Brian's. He rolls his hips up and slowly thrusts against Brian's belly, wishing they were naked. But this feels good, slowly rubbing together. Brian grinds down and groans again, and it's the sexiest thing Bob's ever heard. He pulls Brian's hips down and thrusts up to hear it again, and is rewarded with an open mouth gasp.

Bob leans up and hums quietly against Brian's lips, and it does something for him, because Brian whimpers and grinds down harder, drops his head down against Bob's shoulder. Bob wraps his arms around him and they rock like that, trading whimpers and panting against each other's necks. It's enough, holding Brian as he trembles and being so close. Warmth spreads through Bob's belly and down his thighs. The room fills with the sounds of heavy breathing and soft mewling, the starchy smell of sweat and sex.

Brian shudders against him and softly moans in Bob's ear, Bob clutches him close and shakes against Brian in turn. They don't kiss, Brian pants in his mouth until he drops to rest his cheek against Bob's chest.

They don't bother to clean up, only separate enough to roll on their sides facing each other. Bob watches Brian trying to fight off sleep and reaches over to run the side of his thumb along the bridge of his nose.

"You're putting me to sleep doing that," Brian complains.

Bob smiles and keeps at it. "That's the idea," he tells him.

Brian puts up with it for a couple minutes and then shifts close enough to tuck his nose up under Bob's chin. He smells sweat-sour, and Bob falls asleep with his arm draped over him.

*********

The next morning is awkward.

Bob slowly comes awake and realizes he's alone in bed. He rolls over and daylight jolts him the rest of the way awake with the yellow-white heat on his face, blinding. He shuts his eyes and it's a minute or two of blinking before he can see properly. But he can hear someone moving around, so maybe Brian's not left yet.

"What time is it?" Bob scratches dried come off his belly where it itches and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He scoops up his shirt off the floor where he tossed it last night, and catches his reflection in a mirror as he stands up; makes a face at his farmer's tan. Summer freckles dot his shoulders and chest.

Brian moves around behind him and Bob watches him through the mirror as Brian collects his cell, wallet, and keys from where he emptied his pockets onto the floor at some point during the night. The way he moves, his shoulders tense, Bob recognizes every one-night stand he's ever had. Disappointment washes over him with such force that it surprises him. He's not sure what he expected, but part of him was looking forward to more. Hoping for, at least. If this is it, Bob regrets not getting Brian naked at least.

"I'm running behind already," Brian says without looking at him. "I gotta make sure the guys are-"

"Never asked last night, but why were you out at the buses?" Bob asks.

It brings Brian up short, and he stops moving long enough to glance up at Bob with a slow flush coloring his face. "Saw you leave and followed you. Wanted to-..." He shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. "I dunno. Just wanted to follow you."

Bob nods while Brian slips out the door.

Brian said wanted, and Bob figures that's something he can work with.

Now that the door's open, the sounds of the tour waking up and hustling about invade. Bob listens to the room next door thump around getting their shit together and remembers his stuff is still in his other room, The Cortez House of Porn.

Bob bumps into Mikey and Gerard two doors down with Brian trapped in some discussion. Gerard's back is to him, but Mikey catches his eye and raises a single eyebrow. Bob salutes him and breezes past on his way by, hoping he remembered to pick up his key last night.

*********

After sound check, Ray asks Bob to play the click track again. "Did Brian, uh, talk to you," Bob asks warily, "like at all?" He hasn't seen Brian since this morning, but Bob's pretty sure it's general tour stuff keeping them busy.

"No, why?" Ray answers with a question. "Does he think it's a good idea?"

Bob counts to ten in his head, slowly, as Ray narrows his eyes at him. He's not paid enough for this kind of thing. "Fine. You know what?" Turning to his station, Bob keys in a string of commands and brings up the mixes for the ear monitors for My Chem's set. "You want me to play the click track? I'll play the click track."

"Thanks, man," Ray says and pats his back. "Bob's the guy!"

Up on stage, Bert pauses his attack on Gerard's pants. "Bob's the guy!"

Bob's so annoyed now that he adds the click track to not only Matt's mix but Ray's and even Gerard's as well. It's the most purposeful fuck-up of his career, and he's probably going to get fired for it. But at the moment, Bob can't find it in himself to care. If Brian wants Bob to be the bad guy, he'll be villainous.

*********

The concert is even worse than Bob thought it would be. It's bad enough that Bob is embarrassed for everyone on stage and everyone responsible for My Chemical Romance being on stage. Bob doesn't like to drink during the show, but he'd kill right now for someone to set up a keg right next to him.

Gerard is drunk. Gerard being drunk is nothing new. However the click track in his mix is throwing him off, and so Gerard is drunk and very confused. He's sweaty and out of breath, stumbling towards the techs and pointing at his ear. He gets too close to Frank's whirling-dervish trashing and gets clipped in the chin with Frank's guitar.

A minute into their second song, Matt stands up at his kit and rips one of his ear monitors out. He seems to be fighting the metronome, probably going half-deaf trying to listen to his own drumming. Bob has never seen someone so focused in his anger, but Matt is pounding the heads so hard that he's built up a lumber yard of dead sticks around him.

Bob realizes the second that Ray recognizes the extra beat added to his mix. He thinks it's a mistake and frantically tries to signal the techs between songs. He seems to catch on though, and then simmers and fumes stage left. From that point on, he's bent over his guitar so his hair hides his face and doesn't move at all.

As the set goes on, Mikey drifts away from the front of the stage towards the back, ignoring Gerard's attempts draw him back. When Gerard grabs his arm and yanks, Mikey actually flails his arm out and knocks Gerard off balance. He recovers enough to stay upright, but then he openly cries through Helena.

Frank helps Gerard off stage and over to the nearest garbage can, where Gerard pukes until he's a mess of tears, snot, and spit. It's awful to watch, and people backstage pointedly look away or leave the area.

"What the fuck, Bryar?"

Bob snaps his head around to Ray Toro bearing down on him in a fury. If looks could kill, there'd be a smoking crater where Bob stands now. As Ray's about to reach across the soundboard and throttle him, Matt storms over to interrupt.

"What the hell, Ray? I told you I don't need a fucking click track, motherfucker!"

It happens so fast. One moment Ray and Matt are facing each other and breathing hard; Bob blinks, and they're on the ground beating the shit out of each other. They knock into the board, and Bob and the techs scramble to grab and steady it. Water bottles tip over and everyone frantically mop up spills, dodging the bodies rolling around the floor.

Mikey and Frank rush over to pull their bandmates apart, but Frank skids through a puddle of puke and falls.

"A little help here?" Mikey calls. "Someone? A little help here?"

They could all use some help.

*********

The spectacle of My Chem's act is the topic of talk during the breakdown. At first, no one knows about the click track. Everyone thinks the band's random behavior sprung from an argument between Gerard and Matt that some of the crew witnessed beforehand. But then someone whispers something about the ear monitors, and suddenly Bob finds himself in a bubble of quiet where people talk until he approaches. The crew, especially the guys breaking down and packing the drum sets, act as if Bob betrayed his own people.

Matt finds Bob helping to roll the last trunks up into the big trailer. He stands off to the side, watching with a couple bottles of beer dangling from one hand. This is not a conversation Bob is looking forward to, so he drags his feet. But no one else is gonna help him avoid Pelissier.

"C'mon, man," Matt calls over. "Don't be a pussy." Bob doesn't have much choice after that.

They end up sitting on the trunk of some one's car right there in the parking lot. Matt passes him a beer and cracks open his own.

"I'm not pissed at you," he says.

Bob blinks at that and twists open his own beer. "Well, I'm grateful for that, but mind if I ask why?"

Matt shakes his head and salutes Bob with his bottle. "You're a pawn and you don't even know it."

"Excuse me?"

Matt looks out over the vehicles getting ready to roll out. He smiles but Bob's not sure if it's meant for him or not.

"Look, when Gee came to me with his lyrics and half-finished arrangements, asking me to find the beat for him? I knew that motherfucker was... was magic or something. He was something all right."

"Elvis dust," Bob mutters and takes a long swallow. "Like fairy dust for musicians."

Matt snorts. "Yeah, then. Elvis dust."

Ray moves among the buses in the distance, pausing before climbing into one to glance over his shoulder at where Matt and Bob sit together. He frowns and ducks away.

"But the band was always about Gerard. His, you know, issues or whatever." Matt looked sideways at Bob. "Ever listen to interviews? I started the band. Me. I started it. Never mentions Ray and I putting together the music for his words. It doesn't sound as exciting as I watched the towers fall and vomited up a band."

Bob doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing.

"I'm telling you..." Matt pauses to cock his head and think a minute. "Listen to me. Gerard? They give him a million chances. Him a million and it's just, fuck me, you know? Like why am I worse than him?"

There's not much Bob can say because it's close to what he's said in private before.

But then Matt surprises him by saying, "It's going to happen to you too, you know. I'm the outsider." He points to Bob. "You're the outsider. They're making you that. You don't think I know? I know."

There's been a lot of subtle talk from Ray and Frank, but Bob didn't know Matt knew. He rubs the back of his neck, feeling his face flush hot.

"We're the same," Matt continues. "You'll see. They can't hate Gerard, so it has to go somewhere."

Bob shrugs and looks away. "Sorry about the mix."

"Doesn't matter," Matt tells him. "You had help being an asshole."

*********

It's by the Grace of God and a lot of apologizing that Bob keeps his job. That and his previous track record of being made of one hundred percent awesome. A small part of him realizes that having slept with Brian probably has something to do with his job still being his job, but Bob doesn't think about it too much, or he'll have to sit down for several hours and think about what he wants there and what it all means. With the tour wrapping up, Bob doesn't have a lot of time to have a relationship crisis on top of his job crisis.

Bob end up moving off the My Chemical Romance bus, though. He doesn't wait to be asked, really. There's a chill between him and the guys, and it makes sense to pack his belongings and step away for the good of everyone. Unfortunately, he's not all that welcome back on Bert's rolling insane asylum either. Bob's their guy, they profess love and loyalty to Bob, but Jepha tells him, "What the hell were you thinking, man? You're a walking target for super revenge now." Shoos him towards the vans. "No way. It's bad enough when it's only Bert pissing in my bunk. I don't need to find cornflakes scattered in there, or my sneakers filled with shit."

Bob finishes the tour riding along in the van with some of the other techs and road crew. It turns out to be all right because it's the end of the tour and the mood is starting to become an us versus them mentality. The roadies against the talent. Talent against the mangers. Roadies in vans versus the roadies on their own bus. On the highway to the second to last show, Bob and his van of crew open the windows and start a water balloon war against another van.

Bob and Brian don't really talk. Brian texts him about picking up things and e-mails him information about Projekt Revolution. He leaves big envelopes full of contracts and printouts on the seats in the van.

Bob doesn't approach Brian. They don't sleep together again.

Bob thinks, "I'm an idiot."

He's comfortable with that.

*********

Bob comes to the conclusion that life alone is fraught with danger about the time he's watching his toaster oven burst into flames. Who knew reheating a slice of pizza could require firefighting skills? Bob's dousing the fire with the sink hose when the phone rings, and he picks up without checking the caller ID. "Hello?"

"Bob?" Brian asks, sounding unsure.

"Hey." Bob knocks the toaster oven into the sink and runs the tap. "What's going on?" The question is met with silence, and he waits to see if the call cut out. "Bri?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I just-..." Brian sighs loudly causing Bob to pull the phone away from his ear for a moment.

"Is this about Projekt Revolution?"

"No," Brian answers. "It occurs to me," he pauses to cluck his tongue, a wet pop over the line. "It occurs to me that maybe I was kind of a jerk."

Which is not what Bob expected to hear. At all. "Oh-kay." And now he's wondering why he's hearing it now. "Thanks for telling me, I guess. 'preciate that."

"Yeah. So, I'm sorry about, you know." Brian sighs again, and Bob chews his thumb as he listens. "Everything. I'm just really sorry."

"Okay, thanks," Bob assures him again. He senses there's more coming, but Brian only breathes into the receiver on his end, and it makes Bob twitchy. "So, uh, shouldn't you be in Japan, or something?"

"Ed's out there," Brian answers. "I couldn't bear to watch the implosion up close. If the band comes back still a band, I'll be fucking surprised."

There's the missing piece. Bob can hear it in Brian's voice. Whatever reason Brian has for calling Bob directly, it's to do with My Chemical Romance. "You're being pretty calm about possibly losing your talent."

"Do I sound calm?" Brian asks softly. "I don't feel it."

Maybe it's the tone of voice or how vulnerable Brian sounds, but Bob is suddenly remembering that night back at the hotel and how Brian felt pressed up against his chest, the way he blushed. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"If I needed you?" Brian asks and pauses.

"If you need me?" Bob prompts.

"To maybe do sound for My Chem in Japan?"

Despite knowing Brian called for something band related, Bob is still a little disappointed that being needed had nothing to do with a hotel room paid for out of pocket and some bad decisions. But still, Brian needs him, and that feels good. "I'll do it for free."

"Thank you." Brian's relief is almost palpable. "No, seriously, thanks, man."

They chat a little about Projekt Revolution's schedule and the crew being hired on, and Bob asks more about the My Chem guys. He misses them, worries a bit over Mikey and Frank.

Bob doesn't bring up that night together, and Brian doesn't mention it.

But it's good to be talking to Brian again.

*********

When he finally gives up touring, Bob thinks he'll write a book about doing it right, because he has getting ready for one down pat. The key to packing for a festival tour is not fucking around with too much clothing. Underwear and socks can be bought at any grocery store when what you have gets dirty, and guys can steal t-shirts from each other and the merch tables. A couple pair of jeans to wear until they stand up and a towel is gold. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy book was completely spot on about the towel thing.

Bob also packs several packages of handiwipes, including the ones that you pop in the microwave for an instant bath. Then he adds his iPod with really good earphones, a journal, a car adapter for his iPod and phone, extra cell phone batteries, Ziploc bags, floss, duct tape, rubber bands, his Nintendo DS and some games, cheap sunglasses, Ben-Gay, Benadryl (to sleep), Power bars, a sewing kit, a roll of Tums and a bottle of Beano, extra padlocks, baby powder, flip-flops, a plastic bottle with a sports cap, a pair of work gloves, an Exacto knife, and a couple used paperback books.

Everything fits in one duffel bag, and that's gotta be some art form that people should know about.

Bob is mid pat-on-his-own-back when the phone rings up out of area. He hesitates and then snatches up the handset. "'Lo?"

"If I draw a dick on Mikey's face, but use a washable marker instead of a Sharpie," Frank asks, "does that still make me a bad person?"

Bob is too shocked to answer.

"I kinda need to know now, 'cause he's gonna wake up any minute."

"Iero? What the hell? Uh." Bob thinks it over. There's a 50/50 chance that Mikey won't notice and no one will tell him, but it is washable ink. "Go for it, dude."

"I'm pointing it towards his mouth," Frank narrates as he draws, "and it's on his face. Ah, there. And a come dribble down his chin."

Bob can just imagine it, and he snorts at his mental picture. "Epic."

"I know, right? I rule."

Bob listens to Frank as he caps the marker and moves around. The guitarist opens and closes a door and then another, and then everything echoes. "Where are you?"

"Japan, duh."

Millions of miles away, and Bob still wants to smack Frank. "No, shit, Sherlock. Where are you now? Right now?"

"Oh, um, the hotel stairwell. I wanted to go somewhere quiet." Frank clears his throat and the echo makes it a loud bark. "Decided I haven't talked to you in a while and, you know, kind of missed you around."

"You miss me?" It would be rude to laugh at that, but it's a near thing for Bob.

"Well, you let me talk without interrupting or getting bored and wandering off, and like... I dunno. I'm not mad at you."

"Who's mad at me?" Bob can guess, but he'd like to know for sure.

"Matt, of course."

"Of course."

"Ray a little. I think he gets why, but he needs to be angry with someone."

"Gerard's not mad?" Bob asks. He doesn't care how hopeful he sounds.

"Naw," Frank answers. "He was disappointed but, you know, he was more upset that Ray was upset. You know?"

Bob gets it. The guys in My Chemical Romance are always upset or angry for someone else. Never for themselves. It's strange. "So, how is everyone?"

Frank hums while he thinks his answer over, and for someone who plays and sings in a band, the hum is pretty toneless. "Eh, the same, I guess. Ray and Matt are at each other's throats. Gerard is Gerard."

Bob nods along as if Frank can see him, which he can't. He adds in an 'hmm'.

"Mikey has a cold or something. When we aren't doing something," Frank explains softly, "he just lays around. Can't keep down food. That sort of thing."

"Sure he's sick?" Bob asks. He knows Frank was a psych major in college, almost graduated and isn't dumb.

"He'll be okay," Frank says before changing the subject. "Hey, if, um, if you could be in a band instead of doing the other side, would you?"

"Ray asked me that once," Bob tells him.

"Did he now? Huh. If you could, though? Seriously."

Bob wonders how bad the tour is for Frank to be hinting around like this. He has to be ready to pull out his own hair. And what can be said in that kind of situation? 'Sure, let me fuck over my paying career for a chance to crash and burn?' "Hmm. I dunno."

"Don't you hate making other people sound better when they're a bunch of assholes?" Frank asks point blank.

"I don't know, Dr. Phil." Bob teases him. "Don't you hate being an asshole?"

Frank and Bob dance around the subject another five minutes before Ed finds Frank in the stairwell. They say their goodbyes and promise to keep in touch. Before Frank hangs up, Bob says, "Tell Ray I'm sorry."

"Will do."

*********

Frank must pass on the message because Bob starts getting e-mail that afternoon from Ray Toro. It's mindless chit-chat at first, small talk about video games and sushi on conveyor belts. He gets a long one right after Ray meets his first real Geisha. Ray loves Japan. The more he talks about what he loves about Japan, the less he writes about Gerard and Matt or the tour. The e-mails read like they're coming from someone on vacation.

On a Starbucks run somewhere in middle America, Bob borrows wifi and Quinn's laptop to ask Ray how the tour is going and if the guys are all okay.

Ray's next e-mail simply says, "I want to shove my foot up Matt's ass, but that means I would have trouble kicking Gerard's next. Tell Jepha to e-mail me."

Bob gives the message to Jepha and e-mails Ray a bunch of music software links.

*********

Bob is half-asleep in his bunk when his phone vibrates against the top of his head. He reaches above him and peels it off the velcro patch on the bunk wall. "Nngh?"

"It went through?" Mikey Way sounds really surprised Bob picked up. "It went through. Hi."

"Mikey Way?" Bob sits up and immediately clocks himself on the low ceiling. "Ow, that hurt, motherfuck!" It's quiet on the other end, and Bob rubs his head and waits. Long distance from Japan to a cell phone. That's crazy. The quiet stretches and Bob can barely hear Mikey breathing on the other end. "Hey."

"Everything's wrong," Mikey whispers. "It's all wrong and I don't- ...know what to do. I don't know."

There's nothing Bob can get up and physically do for Mikey from a bus rolling around on tour on another continent. All he can do is listen and hope it's enough. "You'll be home in no time. Hang in there. It's no sweat. No sweat at all."

"It's different this time," Mikey tells him. "He didn't bring hardly anything with him."

"Who, Gerard?"

Mikey keeps rambling like Bob didn't interrupt. "His laptop is home. He just left it. And it's all other stuff too. Like he's gotten all creepy when people leave the room, hugging them and telling them thank you. Thanks for being here. He's not even drunk for that sometimes." He takes a shaky breath and adds, "And he doesn't even get drunk because he happens to be drinking. Gerard is drinking just to get like that. Then taking stuff to wake up in the morning. I don't think he's eating. He's not eating. I don't think so. I don't see him eat really."

Bob listens to Mikey wind down panting with the effort, his breathing slowing down and starting to shudder. Bob rolls out of his bunk and staggers at the light hitting him. Wakes the tech across from him and mouths 'Phone' at him until he hands it over.

"It's okay, Mikey. A couple days and you're home," Bob whispers and tries to dial Brian from memory on the other phone. Other people are catching on that something is happening and watch from slits in their bunk curtains or from the doorway to the back lounge.

"I tried to call my mom," is the last thing Mikey gets out before he starts crying. It's quiet and muffled like his hand is over his mouth. It's the most heartbreaking thing Bob's been witness to.

"Shh. It's okay. It's okay. Can you get-...Is someone there with you?"

"Hello?" Brian picks up on the other phone.

Bob presses his cell to his chest and fills Brian in on what's going on with Mikey on the other. It takes a few minutes after that, but as Bob listens to Mikey cry, someone knocks on the door on Mikey's end.

"I gotta go," he tells Bob.

"Okay. It's going to be all right. Okay?"

But Mikey hangs up before answering.

Bob hands back the borrowed phone and stands there trying to compose himself. He's shaking and it has nothing to do with being shirtless or barefoot.  Bob heads up front to try and figure out where the bus is and where it's headed. He feels uncomfortably lost and turned about. Having a direction to go in would be great.

His call to Brian later goes to voicemail, likewise his calls to Ray and Frank. No one answers their e-mail. Bob is so desperate to know what's going on, he asks Bert.

Bert doesn't know anything but offers to let Bob touch his dick if Bob tattoos 'The Used' across his knuckles.

*********

Gerard tries to kill himself. He takes a bunch of pills, snorts a couple lines, and gargles with whatever alcohol is left lying around. Then he calls Brian to thank him and to make sure he looks out for his band. Brian ends up sending over a tech, someone straight-edge of all things, to sit with him until Gerard fights his way sober.

Bob's not clear on whether it was a suicide attempt or simply the singer hitting rock bottom. But what it is scares the crap out of everyone that's spent any sort of time with Gerard.

Bob is pretty sure that some people hearing about the news are thinking, that could be me. Bert is quiet for days and sticks close to Quinn. They pass their bottles back and forth, drinking on the buddy system. Jepha wanders from the area when anyone brings it up, and Branden puts black Xs on the backs of his hands with a Sharpie.

A couple days later, Brian calls while Bob is stuck in front of his soundboard plugging in cables.

"They aren't just my meal ticket."

His own words thrown back at him bring Bob up short. "I know. I'm sorry I said that."

"We're friends."

"I know."

Brian goes quiet a moment then sighs over the line. "I should have said something more. Or been there."

"You were where you needed to be," Bob says. "Who would have been on the other side of the phone, if you weren't?"

"But-"

"Bri, man. You did what you needed to do. You were right. Gerard has to make his own choices." He listens to Brian's breath hitch on the other end. "Don't feel guilty. What happened isn't your fault."

"Don't try to make me feel better," Brian warns. "Gerard tried to kill himself."

Bob completely ignores Brian's tone. "Yeah, Gerard tried to kill himself," he says. "All by himself. No one had a gun to his head."

"But I knew, everyone knew. It was just something... Look, I myself did-"

"Shhh." Bob isn't stupid. But like he told Ray, it's best to fix one problem at a time. "Gerard didn't die, and even if he did, it still wouldn't have been your fault." He waits for a beat and adds, "There are four other guys in that band, and he has a mother. You're pretty far down on the list of people who should be wiping Gerard's ass for him."

"Three other guys." Brian clears his throat. "Matt's all but out. They want him out."

"Wow." It takes Bob by surprise because the band looked to be heading that way and grumbling in a backbiting way, but he didn't think they'd actually go through with it. Matt helped build the band. He was one of two people Gerard went to with his first song. "It's not because of the click track thing, is it?" He gets up and starts pacing around his backstage area.

"It's a lot of things. The constant arguments, the inferior playing." Brian clucks his tongue. "Gerard's brother is in the band. You can't talk shit about Gerard because then that's two people right there that have it out for you. You know? And when it's the two Ways versus Pelissier, the Ways are the one's everyone backs."

Bob thinks that over a moment. "I won't say I liked the guy because I don't." He takes a deep breath. "But why doesn't he get Gerard's second chance?"

"Because he isn't Gerard," is Brian's simple answer. "Anyway, if his leaving draws off some of the poison killing the group, then... you know. Let 'em believe this is the fix they're looking for."

"Yeah." Bob gets that. "Okay, sure."

There's a lull in the conversation, and Bob waves off an approaching tech.

"They're going to ask you," Brian finally says.

Bob could play stupid, but Brian probably couldn't take it right now. "I figured."

"What will you say?" Brian asks. He sounds unsure, and Bob remembers all over again how much Brian has invested in My Chemical Romance's success. Going from tour manager to running a management company is pretty huge.

"Who's asking? Their manager or..."

"Don't," Brian pleads. "I want to know. Me. Please?"

"What do you want me to say?" Bob's has a well-paying career and stability. But he's also got a chance to dream bigger than he thought he could. There's a lot of temptation there.

Brian is quiet for a while, and then Bob listens to him start to answer and then pause a couple times before saying, "It would be good if you were around more."

"Yeah?"

Brian huffs at him. "Yeah."

*********

Bob leaves the Projekt Revolution tour because Brian asks him to find a flight and meet up with the My Chem guys. He flies out coach in a seat built for little people and amputees and is met at the airport by Matt Cortez of all people. Cortez looks as confused as Bob does.

"They're having you come in and do sound? You?"

Wow, awkward. "Um, yes?"

"Oh-kay." Matt shrugs and grins points the way towards the car. "Matt, other Matt, is gonna have a stro-"

"Pelissier's here?" Bob asks, breaking in.

Cortez stops walking and raises an eyebrow at Bob. "Yeah. Why?"

"No reason."

Matt doesn't look like he believes him at all, glares at Bob like he's finally caught on to the nonsense going on. "Right. Okay then. Brian said to bring you right there, so we better get on the road."

The conversation to the hotel is stilted and centers around the gear being used and who's on roadcrew and who are sharing rooms. Bob's not even going to remember half of what Cortez tells him later, but he listens and nods along anyway. They don't talk about the band or about that disastrous concert, and before long their car pulls up to a better class of hotel than My Chemical Romance usually stays in.

"The guys are going places," Matt says, smiling smugly.

"I see that," Bob mumbled. "Think the techs are going to get their own bus next tour?"

Matt shrugs and pulls into a parking place. "Be nice to get out of the shitty van, right?"

Brian, Ray, and Frank are sitting in the lobby when Bob and Matt Cortez head in. Frank looks three steps past exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes, which are sunk in. His face is stubbled and his skin is breaking out. Bob really wants to hit a pause button on everything and send Frank somewhere to lay down. He looks that bad.

"Thanks, Cortez. Can you do me a favor," Ray asks, "and tell Mikey that we got Bob?"

"Just tell him I'm here," Bob says right after, not sure why he's correcting the way Ray phrased it. Matt simply nods and trots off towards the elevators.

"Did you eat yet?" Brian asks the space over Bob's shoulder.

"There's a bar," Ray mentions. "But there's, like, tables and stuff. We can sit down."

"Yeah, I could eat," Bob answers. Brian takes his duffel and moves over to the front desk, while Bob steps over to ruffle Frank's hair. "Hey, you. You look tired."

Frank smiles sadly and bats weakly at Bob's arm. "Miss home. Wanna sleep in my own bed."

"Brian talked to you, right?" Ray asks. He sways back and forth and doesn't know where to put his hands. Frank looks extra still next to all of Ray's twitching and blinking.

"Yeah," Bob says. "We talked."

Ray nods and glances over at the people coming off the elevator. "Good, good. Just so we're all on the same page."

"Are we?" Bob asks. "All on the same page? All of us?"

"Some more than others," Brian answers as he comes back over empty-handed now.

He can't be entirely sure, but Bob thinks that Brian is carefully not looking at him. "Really? How's that gonna go? Because I'm thinking it will be bad." Brian glanced over his shoulder and away. It's annoying enough that Bob wants to step right into the other man's space and make Brian meet his eyes.

"I don't care anymore," Frank mutters from his slump. "Let's just go home and go back to playing halls and shit. Let's be someone else, not My Chemical Romance."

They're all saved from saying something by the arrival of Mikey and his brother. Gerard is a shade of prison pallor, green-gray and milky. But he doesn't smell, which Bob thinks is a pleasant change. He's also sober. That's an even nicer change. Mikey looks like he's wearing himself as a costume over himself. He's pink-cheeked and smiling, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes, and he's still all awkward angles, knees and elbows and bony shoulders.

Frank waves his hand, and Ray nods and says, "They serve dinner in the bar."

Bob watches everyone pause and tries to watch Gerard without looking at him like they're waiting for his reaction. Blessedly outside the situation still, Bob doesn't worry about subtlety and watches him openly.

Gerard frowns at Ray and then looks at the doorway to the bar. He ducks his chin and stared at the rug. Mikey reaches out from behind his brother and rubs his back, a quick up and down along his spine. "Okay. Let's do this then."

"You can sit in the seat with your back to the bar," Frank says and hooks his and Gerard's pinkies together.

So that's what they do. They find a table as far away from the bar as they can, and Gerard sits with his back to it. Everyone is nervous. Bob wonders what Matt knows, wonders if he's in his room on his laptop while his band squeezes him out over spaghetti? He's so busy up in his head pondering this, he almost misses the waitress setting the Coors bottle next to Ray's plate. What gets his attention first is the way Gerard's eyes jerk right to it, and the way everyone stares stunned.

"What the hell, Ray?" Mikey has a white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair like he's about to launch himself across the table. His brother notices that and leans back and slides his arm along the back of Mikey's chair, whether to calm him or to be ready to grab the back of his shirt, Bob's not sure.

"I'm not the addict," Ray answers. "And," he looks over at his friend, "I have faith in Gerard." Ray's expression isn't smug or cruel. It's fond if anything. "If he says he can do this? I believe him."

Frank nods. "Gee can do it. I'm a betting man." He touches the scorpion tattoo on his neck, his all in chip he put on the band against a regular job in the normal world. "I bet everything on Gerard." He pats Gerard's arm and then leans over to snatch up Ray's bottle, downing almost half before Ray can grab it back.

Bob glanced over at Brian and tries to nudge his foot under the table, obviously missing because Gerard elbows him. "That's my foot, motherfucker. You playing footsie with me?"

"Probably not," Mikey pipes up before Bob can answer. "He's probably aiming for Brian."

Bob sputters and feels his face grow hot, and Brian ducks his head. Everyone sees, though, how red the back of his neck and ears go.

"Wow." Ray sounds a bit awed. "Now when the assholes call us a bunch of butt munchers. They won't totally be wrong."

Frank nods and high fives Gerard. "Awesome. We're so gay now."

"I'm not gay," Mikey throws out. "I totally like breasts."

"Your brother has tits," Ray teases.

Gerard looks horrified. "You're a bad person, Toro. No, seriously. Bob is totally not sucking your dick later."

Brian looks up at Bob and shrugs an apology.

Bob merely grins back. "It's okay." He pats Brian's arm, "I already knew these guys were a bunch of idiots."

Then it happens. Almost like a marriage proposal. "Will you, Bob Bryar..."

They ask Bob over dinner in a hotel bar to join My Chemical Romance as their new drummer. He says yes and makes it a done deal. The only people he'll make sound good now are himself and his band.

His band. Bob really likes the sound of that.

*********

Just because Gerard managed to keep Matt otherwise occupied while the band asked Bob to join the group, Bob shouldn't have assumed that Matt was oblivious to what was going on. For all his faults, Matt is pretty smart. Bob wishes he had remembered that before stepping into the hotel room he'll be sharing with Matt Cortez, and flinching because Cortez isn't the only Matt hanging out in front of the television.

Bob nods, greeting, "Pelissier." Awkward doesn't begin to cover this. "How's it going man?"

Cortez snorts and rolls off the bed. "And on that note? I'm out."

"Just so you know," Matt says from his spot on the floor. "It's not happening."

Bob plays dumb. "Yeah, sorry about that concert. You probably hate seeing my face." He drops his duffel bag next to the bed closest to the door and generally acts like his heart isn't about to beat out of his throat and explode. "But I was asked to come out, and I'm only helping out as an audio tech. That's it. I'm not in charge of the mixing even. I'm throwing cable and setting up microphones."

"I'm not stupid," Matt tells him. "You're not teching. I know why you're here and it's not happening." He gets up and sits on the bed opposite Bob, leaning forward like sharing is caring. "I get it. But they can't-..." Matt looks around like the words he wants are circling his head. "Me, Gerard, and Ray made his band, and Ray and I have kept it going while Gerard..."

Bob rethinks his agreement to join the band, as they're all too stupid to live after leaving him and Matt together. "Okay." He should have had a beer with dinner. Or several beers. "Whatever, man. I'm gonna." Bob looks for an escape. "Do. Something." He ducks into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. Matt knocks on the door, and Bob eyes the tub trying to figure out if it's long enough for him to sleep in.

"You think because I'm not always around, I don't know what's happening around here?" There's a thump like the door being kicked. "I'm part of this band. People like me. I see who comes and goes and hear the news."

If Matt weren't so pathetic, Bob would kick his ass on general principle.

"I know about you and Brian."

And that is unexpected. Bob unlocks the door and swings it open. Matt is standing ramrod straight right outside, arms crossed over his chest. "I saw him follow you down the road. Then you guys came back and he got a room for you two. No one saw you until the next morning. Mikey said you came out of the same door."

Bob stares at him hard. If Matt had any self-preservation, he would stop talking right now. Of course, he doesn't, though. No one in the god damned band seems to have any survival instincts. How they've managed not to-

"Are you boyfriends? Is he fucking you? Are you an ass bandit?" Bob stalks forward until they're chest-to-chest.

"I suggest you fuck off and keep your mouth shut about things you know nothing about." Matt doesn't even blink, and Bob crowds him. "We're not fucking."

"So then it's blowjobs? Do you suck his dick?" Matt asks, sounding bored. "Did he promise to put in a good word for you?"

It happens so fast. Bob blinks and Pelisser's head is hitting the wall behind him with a heavy thunk against the plaster. Someone in the room next door slaps the wall in response.

"I'm not fucking gay," Bob growls.

Matt laughs in his face. "And Gerard's not a coke-headed drunk."

"Not anymore," Bob says. He takes a slow breath and drops Matt, loosens his grip on his shirt. Steps back. "He's going to beat it, and this band is going to be huge."

"He'll never change." Matt reaches up to rub the back of his head, careful to not look away from Bob. "He only thinks he climbed out of his mother's basement. He's still down there, and he's going to pull everyone down there with him. He's a black hole."

"Then leave!" Bob yells. "Get the fuck out."

If only it were that easy, though. Matt glares and settles on the end of one of the beds, holding onto the mattress as if Bob were threatening to toss him out into the hallway. Which is a huge temptation, but Bob isn't that big of a jackass. Yet.

"It's my band too," Matt tells him. "Mine, not yours. You get the fuck out."

It's actually a smart idea. Bob figures it's the only smart idea that Matt's had since this thing has started. He grabs his duffel from where he dropped it and leaves the room. If he has to camp out on some one's floor, he will. But there's no way he's sleeping in a room that Pelissier is hanging out in.

As he reaches the elevator bank, the doors open and Brian steps out. "Where are you going?"

A dozen smart replies flash through Bob's mind, but he ends up saying, "With you. I'm following you."

Brian's gaze drops to the floor, and he bites his lip. Bob watches his face warm with color.

"Pelissier's in with the techs or something. I think he was waiting for me."

"So you don't want to be there," Brian helpfully supplies.

Bob nods and steps closer. "Unless you want me to toss him out a window?"

"This is all kinds of fucked up." Brian motions Bob to follow and reaches for his duffel. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Bob quickly reassures him, then thinking better of it, "actually, no it's not. But I get the craziness. How long has Gerard been sober?"

"This many days," Brian says and holds up one hand and a couple fingers on his other. "He detoxed on the plane in from Japan."

"You're kidding?" Bob asks. It sounds insane, but then they are talking about Gerard. "He's lucky some air marshal didn't shoot him or something."

Brian stops in front of a door and fishes out his key card. "Yeah. It was a close thing." A quick swipe and the door swings open on Ray lounging back on one of the beds with a magazine. He glances over at them and then rolls up to stand.

"If I end up sleeping with the Ways," Ray tells him as he crosses to the door, "I demand coffee to be delivered to me in the morning. Starbucks. Still hot. I don't even want to leave my bed without smelling it waiting for me."

He pauses at the door and makes a sour face at them. "Don't have sex on my stuff."

"Jesus, Toro." Bob rolls his eyes and shoves him out the door. "Just for that, I'm emptying your suitcase onto the bed first." Then slams the door in Ray's face.

Bob turns around, Brian's eyes are wide and he's shifting his watch and bracelets up and down his wrist. He couldn't look more nervous if he tried. "Are we going to have sex then?"

"How does everyone know about that night?" Bob asks instead of answering.

Brian shrugs. He must decide they're not because he toes off his sneakers and relaxes into a nearby chair. "Gossip happens on tour. You know that. Locked in buses and vans and shitty motels, what else is there to talk about?"

Bob knows that. But it doesn't mean he has to like it. "I'm not gay, you know." He doesn't know why he says it. Regrets it as soon as he does. Brian's face blanks and he breathes out hard like he's been gut-punched. Sudden guilt grips Bob, his face gets warm. "Sorry. Stupid to say that." He peeks at Brian from the corner of his eye and shrugs. "Don't know why I did, sorry."

"S'okay," Brian mumbles, looks away.

Bob sinks down on the bed across from him. "It's not." He carefully doesn't look at Brian. "But okay. If you say so."

There's no answer, and Bob doesn't look up. He stares at the rug. It's brown with a darker brown pattern, and it was probably really swank when it was first laid down. It looks well walked on, and over by the window, it's faded. It's not dirty, though. Some places he's stayed at while touring were covered in debris. He's so busy studying the rug and thinking about other motels and hotels that he's stayed at, Bob doesn't notice Brian get up and move to the bed. He's surprised when it dips and Brian sits next to him, pressed thigh to knee.

"Matt called me an ass bandit," Bob tells him. Brian's arm settles across his back, his hand curling over Bob's shoulder. "Who says that even? Christ, what an asshole." Brian responds by simply running his hand down and up Bob's back slowly. "I didn't expect that. You know? No one's really said stuff to me." They're sitting so close that he can feel Brian nod by the way his body rubs against Bob's side.

"You're kind of intimidating," Brian murmurs and reaches across his lap with his other hand to touch Bob's wrist. Bob turns his hand over, and Brian strokes the tip of his finger along Bob's thumb.

"Yeah, well, not too intimidating," Bob says. "Didn't stop Matt from talking shit." He makes a fist and captures Brian's finger, squeezes it. "He pretty much said this is happening because we're fucking."

Brian sighs and jerks his finger away. "You believe that?" He drops his other arm and carefully doesn't look at Bob. "That you're only here because we fooled around? That what you think?"

"No," Bob answers, then adds, "someone else might."

"Okay," Brian agrees. "But someone is always going to be saying something about you after joining the band." He peeks sideways at Bob and then away. "It only matters if you buy into it."

"I said no," Bob reminds him. "Fuck Matt. He's an asshole. He's lucky I didn't pitch him out a window or something."

"We're on the second floor," Brian says.

Bob raises an eyebrow. "And?"

Brian wrinkles his nose and it's so cute, Bob grins just at that. "He'd probably only break a leg. It's not very high."

"You're the man in charge of plans and details," Bob tells him. "I'm the hired muscle."

"Right. I forgot."

Brian slowly leans back on his elbows, turning a little to look at Bob. It's an invitation if Bob's ever had one, and he stretches out on his side next to him. "So then, Mr. Detail Man, what's next on the plan?"

"No plan," Brian answers softly. Bob shifts closer by jerking his body. The whole bed shakes a little, and Brian goes with it, turns on his side to face Bob. "Thank you."

Bob frowns at him then makes a face. "For what? Shaking the bed?"

"No." Brian smiles and scooches closer. "Just thanks."

"Uh huh." Bob reaches out to Brian and runs his palm down his arm to his elbow, cups it and squeezes. He looks away when Brian's eyes get suspiciously shiny and wet looking.

"Thanks for saving my guys. And stuff. Thanks for that."

Bob hooks his finger in Brian's belt loop and urges him closer until their legs tangled together. "Got anywhere to be?"

Brian shakes his head a little. "I'm free." Brian's so close that Bob can feel his warm breath puffing against his chin.

"Good." Bob leans in, presses his lips against the corner of Brian's mouth. He doesn't remember their first kiss. He remembers doing it, but not what it was like. So he makes this one their first kiss. He nuzzles his lips against Brian's and then scrapes his teeth along his chin. Brian's moan tickles Bob in all the right places, and he licks along the seam of Brian's mouth until he sighs, then slides their tongues together.

This is the kiss he'll remember.

*********

The next part seems to happen fast, and Bob feels strangely divorced from Matt's leaving. He hears about it after, and it's like he's not even hearing about his own band. Some other group lost their drummer. Not his band. Not that My Chemical Romance is his band yet, in name yes, of course. He still has a way to go in making it his band, though.

Practice is awkward.

Gee is newly sober, and Ray is super jittery and uncomfortable. Matt isn't there for Ray to be angry and frustrated with, so now he has to learn to be angry and frustrated with Gerard. He speeds through runs while waiting for Gerard to stop explaining something to Mikey. It's hard to hear over him. It's like Ray is finally punishing Gerard, and Gerard is taking it because he thinks he deserves it.

Frank throws up a lot. Brian keeps putting a hand to his forehead, but Frank's skin is cool to the touch. Bob guesses nerves and points out quietly that it happens most frequently after Ray stomps around giving Gerard a hard time.

Mikey shadows Bob. At first, Bob isn't aware of it, but then it clicks that he's being stalked. Mikey creeps back during practice until he's almost playing behind the drum kit, and during breaks, Bob is constantly stopping short to have Mikey walk into his back.

It's frustrating and weird, and Bob starts to wonder if it will work at all. Maybe Matt was right and this is still Pelissier's band, and Bob is the guy at side stage that makes other people sound good for the rest of his life.

Then, "What the fuck, Ray?" Gerard throws down his microphone and waves his hands as he yells and gets in Ray's face. That's all it takes for Ray and Gerard to start pushing each other and yelling nothing that makes sense to anyone but them. The tension of last year is shooting out and crackling back and forth between their bodies.

Mikey and Frank watch, statue still, almost not breathing from what Bob can tell. He climbs out from behind his drums and tugs Frank's sleeve. "Need a smoke. C'mon and keep me company." Then he drags them both outside the practice space.

Brian pops out five minutes later to Mikey teaching them to smoke with the cigarette shoved up their noses. Bob has one in each nostril.

This is Bob's band.

His.

They'll make it.

*********

The swing set is a big metal A-frame with four swings across, and Bob's not sure if it's part of the actual school grounds or not. He could be on someone else's property for all he knows. He doesn't really care. He just appreciates that they're far away from the cameras that have been whirling around set for the Not Okay video. Every time they aim his way, Bob's skin crawls. He hates it more than the random fans with their cameras because these he can't swat out of his face.

Off in the distance, Ray and Frank take down Brian in a fursuit like they're living out their secret jock fantasies. Bob can almost hear the crunch and grunt as they hit. He laughs now while Brian isn't around to hear.

Mikey drifts down to the swings first after they wrap the scene. Bob offers over his pack of cigarettes, and they smoke while swaying as the breeze takes them. Gerard strolls down shortly after, stumbling because he found the only gopher hole in the entire field.

"Goddammit!"

Bob tries to be polite and laughs behind his hand. "You okay, Gee?"

"There's dirt in my sock." Of course, there is. "I think I ripped these pants. Shit. You think they'll make us buy the pants or something? Are these rented? Someone else's junk was in these pants. We're totally swapping dick sweat."

"Why doesn't this worry you when you borrow my shit?" Mikey asks.

Frank runs across the field full tilt with Ray flying behind him. Gerard doesn't get out of the way because he assumes, wrongly, that with an entire field to move around in, Frank and Ray will go around him. Bob thinks Gerard really expects too much from them. He's not surprised when Frank slams into Gerard's back and they topple over. Ray jumps over them and takes the third swing. Frank gets the last one because it takes Gerard a while to exhaust his vocabulary of swear words which he does before actually getting up.

"Motherfucker!" Gerard yells. "You're a motherfucker, Iero."

"Don't hear your mother complaining," Frank replies sweetly.

Mikey protests on principle. "Don't talk about my mother, ass face."

"Hey!" Ray waves his hands for attention. "Gee, hey. Run through the swings like a gauntlet." He motions like he conducting an orchestra and then points to their swings.

Gerard raises an eyebrow and then flips Ray the middle finger.

"No, seriously," Ray insists. "We'll swing. You go this way." He adds more hand motions and points from one end of the swing set to the other. "Between us. See? It'll be like Indiana Jones."

"Yeah!" Frank adds because he's always up for a bad idea. Bob's noticed that about him. If someone announced a fart smelling contest, Bob's pretty sure Frank would be right there until he passed out. "Dodge us!"

Gerard looks skeptical and then trudges to the end of the A-frame. "Okay, don't kick me, assholes."

"We'll try not to," Bob assures him.

Gerard bounces and watches the timing and then darts forward. Mikey kicks him in the ass as he passes and spins his brother around into Bob, knocking Bob sideways. Then as Gerard lurches back into place, Bob swings back and sends him crashing into Frank. Gerard staggers past, and Ray catches him in the shoulders with both feet and launches him backward into the grass.

"Holy shit!" Mikey yells. "That was awesome!"

Gerard raises his fist in victory. "Uuungh."

They can barely breathe, they're all laughing so hard.

Brian comes jogging across the field towards them. He looks confused as he glances down at Gerard prone on the ground. "Next shot is getting set up and you're all needed up by hair and makeup." He looks over at Bob. "You ready to get on camera again?"

"Ugh," Bob answers with a roll of his eyes. "I hate this. I look awful on camera."

Brian, of course, gives him no sympathy. "Suck it up, princess." He shakes the sweat dripping off his hair on Bob. "Try wearing a fursuit in the heat and getting tackled by Frank and Toro." Then he reaches down to help Gerard up. "I think my spine fell out my ass."

"Want for me to check?" Bob asks. Ray snorts and gets up, then pulls Frank from his swing.

Brian shrugs and walks backward facing Bob. "Maybe later. I hear they're shooting a music video here." They grin at each other until Mikey clears his throat and hops off his own swing. "Maybe we should check that out." Brian turns and lopes away shoulder-to-shoulder with Gerard and Frank catching up to walk on their heels. Mikey salutes Bob and follows.

"I hear MTV used to play music videos," Ray says and throws his arm around Bob as they walk.

Bob nods along. "We should check that out. It could be huge."

Ray grins and starts humming the opening to Not Okay. Up ahead of them, Gerard hears and picks up the song. Bob finds the beat and lets it guide him.

End...or beginning


End file.
